The Scientist
by greysfanhp
Summary: Curiosity killed the cat, they say. But satisfaction brought it back. A few years after the war Hermione is a widely respected academic about to start her latest research project. To see its completion, however, she will truly have to venture into the unknown. Cissy/Hermione pairing in due time.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Almost four years after the defeat of Tom Riddle and Hermione still slept with her wand firmly strapped to her left forearm. As she quickly blinked away any threat of tears and she willed her lungs to return to a normal breathing rate, she unsheathed her wand and wordlessly cast a soft Lumos charm to survey her room.

Crookshanks laying undisturbed at the foot of her bed. Check. Her bookshelf remaining static, all books untouched from where she'd left them the day prior. Check. The window, still closed and locked giving no hint of the sunrise that was sure to soon come. Check. Her closet, open, revealing her handful of robes and spartan amount of clothing. Check. The large cauldron on the desk still bubbling under an invisible fire. Check.

As Hermione methodically went through the inventory of her little room, she slowly relaxed an inch more with each item she catalogued. At last, as she registered the cheerful poster of the Holyhead Harpies which Ginny had insisted on hanging on her wall, did she turn off the soft light on her wand and sink back down onto her pillow. She fooled around with the idea of going back to sleep, even as she knew that the likelihood of that happening was as high as Kreature deciding to bring her a cup of tea to wake her up in the mornings from now on. So instead she sighed, rubbed her eyes and left the warmth of her bed to start the day.

Today was an important day. It was little Teddy's birthday and there was to be a party in his honour. Quidditch themed, if Hermione remembered correctly; and as she stepped out of her room and into one of the corridor's of Grimmauld Place she almost smacked her face against a toy snitch. Yes, she did remember correctly. Hermione turned on the light for the first floor and was met with an explosion of sporting decoration. Harry must've stayed up late doing all of this, she thought warmly to herself as she ducked under a slowly moving bludger that hurtled her way. Her quiet friend had obviously not wanted to interrupt her early night in and took it upon himself to convert the house into his godson's fantasy and the result, Hermione could not deny, was quite spectacular. The walls were now draped to the effect that each corridor seemed like a tunnel leading to a quidditch pitch. Toy brooms, bats and quaffle's were scattered about while child-proofed snitches and bludgers flew around the corridors. As endearing as this all was, Hermione hoped Harry didn't decide to keep the redecoration as a permanent fixture in the house - those bludgers alone were a serious threat to health and safety.

As she was musing this, Harry stepped out of his room still in pyjama's and caught sight of her. "Bit much?" He asked with a huge grin.

"Not at all. It's quite subtle, in my opinion." Hermione replied, both of them laughing now. "Breakfast?"

"Yeah, Ginny's coming in a few hours with the cake."

"Let me guess - a snitch?"

"I'm surprised you didn't take NEWT Divination." Harry teased.

By the time they reached the bottom floor, dodging and jumping Harry's obstacle course, the sun was slowly pouring through the little window in the kitchen, illuminating the large table that stood in the centre of the room. Half of it was covered under small piles of books, documents, parchments and ink pots; the other half had freshly cooked breakfast waiting for the friends. Against Hermione's wishes, Kreature insisted on being a house elf that lived up to the standard expected of such an ancient and revered house.

"I really think we should pay him." Hermione muttered as she sat down.

"He won't take our money." Harry replied absently, having had variants of this conversation every single morning since they had moved in. The routine provided them a certain comfort, a reassurance to them both after a night of bad dreams that they were back in normality. When the war ended and Hermione had found herself with nowhere concrete to stay, Harry had offered her lodgings with him in Grimmauld Place - the house was far too big for him, especially when Ginny was touring, she'd be doing him a favour. Hermione had insisted that it would only be temporary, she didn't want to intrude on his and Ginny's life; but they soon realised that the proximity did them all good - they were all still too scared and too young and too used to each others company to really go off on their own.

"Is Fleur coming?" Hermione asked as she buttered her toast.

"Yeah, so are the Lovegood's - it's going to be a full house; especially as Teddy's quite popular at his nursery. I think he invited his whole class." Harry took a sip of orange juice. "I think I remember Bill said something about Fleur doing some research on blood magic...?"

"Yeah, Fleur mentioned some healing rituals they perform in Veela clans last time we saw each other - could you pass the eggs? - so I asked her if she could go into it a bit more detail for me, I'm starting a new research project."

"So soon? You just wrapped up your last book." Harry asked as he poured himself some tea and took a crumpet from the small pile Creature had baked that morning.

"You know me - can't sit still for too long." Hermione smiled, handing Harry the sugar. "Plus, now with the updated version of Hogwarts a History out of the way, I can concentrate on a proper research study instead of being limited to stand-alone essays in journals."

"What are you going to focu-" Harry stopped mid-sentence, his eyes flashing as he heard the door open. Hermione herself froze, wishing that the knife in her hand was her wand and not silverware. But then the voices of Ron and George filled the halls, allowing both friends to start breathing again.

"Wow, mate. Careful there, you might just spoil Teddy." Ron said with a huge grin as he opened the kitchen door, allowing a bludger to zoom in.

"I'm glad to see Weasley's Wizard Wheezes' trial version of party decoration has been successful." George said with a smile. "The room next to the bathroom refuses to give up it's Valentine's Day theme. Although I'm not sure whether that has more to do with my charms than with the room taking a fancy with being covered in heart-shaped confetti."

"George Weasley, you will have me to answer to if I have to dodge snitches every time I leave my room." Hermione said curtly as she passed the two boys the pot of tea.

"Which is why I'm here early." He said grinning back at her. "There's a charm or two I need to cast to make sure the bludgers don't get steadily more aggressive... and that the walls don't merge with the new drapery."

Hermione rose from her chair. "Well then, boys. Let's get this party started."

Three and a half hours later and the party was in full swing. Small children flew rampant on toy broomsticks, high on sugar while adoring parents ran after them taking photos.

"Soh cute, and yet soh messy." Fleur commented with her head cocked to the side as a small, golden haired boy made a mess of himself trying to eat a feisty chocolate frog whilst trying to navigate on his toy broom.

"I don't see the cute at all." Hermione replied handing Fleur a cold butterbeer.

"That's what they all say." Andromeda said joining the conversation. "But I suppose if there's anyone I know who would stick to their guns it's you."

Hermione chuckled. "I hope. I can just see the frogspawn splattered all over my books."

"Talking about your books. I have compiled my notes for you. I hope they can be of help." Fleur said as the three witches moved towards the sanctuary of the kitchen.

"That's fantastic! I've been dying to compare certain blood rituals with a particular strand of theoretical magic because I've found these papers published a while ago -"

"Slow down, dear!" Andy said with a laugh. "I haven't heard someone so excited about theoretical magic for a long time."

"Fleur! This is fantastic!" Hermione exclaimed as her eyes ran down the neat handwriting. "Thank you so much for including the calculations to predict effectiveness and strength of the rituals. I wouldn't have known where to start."

"It was no trouble, 'ermione." Fleur said with a gentle smile. "Just send me copy of your work once you finish."

"You'll have more than that, you are definitely going to be mentioned in the credits." Hermione replied, looking up from the notes smiling with the same unabashed glee as all the children running outside the room. "Could you just explain that formula to me because I'd like to run some of Hippocrates' theories through it."

"Wait..." Andy interrupted. "Did you just say Hippocrates?"

"Yeah," Hermione replied with her eyebrows furrowed. "You're the first person who recognises the name."

"I have a feeling I know why."

"He seems to have only published two papers; both years apart and both absolutely extraordinary. But they were both published in the most obscure Turkish journal I only happened to come across because someone had used copies of it to balance a nightstand that was rickety." Hermione babbled. "It's so annoying, the magazine has been discontinued for over a decade and one of the articles has been ripped in half and I have no idea how to find the other half. Plus, nothing but treaties on ancient greek medicine come up when I try and look for other works published under his name."

"That's because Hippocrates is a pseudonym -" Andy started.

"Well, yes, I figured that much out, but it does leave me with no idea how to find him."

"You can start by referring to Hippocrates as a 'her'" The older witch said, quite amused, despite herself, at the look of confusion the other two women gave her.

"Andy, wait... are - are you Hipp-"

Andromeda Tonks let out a long deep laugh. "No, no, no, no, dear child. I never had the patience nor the mind for theoretical magic." She said still laughing, until a small sad smile replaced the mirth on her face. "My sister, Narcissa, on the other hand, well -" she stopped briefly to take a sip of her drink and look down at her worn hand. "Lets just say Cissy was the most wasted mind of her age. Father didn't approve of the idea of women in academia - 'not a woman's place' - he said whenever Cissy asked him for permission to publish anything. Marrying her off to a traditionalist like Malfoy, well, that killed any chance of her being able to think for herself. Those two papers -" Andy said, gesturing towards Hermione with her cup. "Were her two acts of rebellion; the first published after she got engaged to Malfoy; and the second, a few months after the first fall of Voldemort." Andy paused to properly analyse Hermione's reaction. The young woman sat in front of her looked torn between wanting to give it all up and absolutely possessed with curiosity. "If you are truly interested in finding out what the other half of her paper says, I would suggest sending Hippocrates a letter. With her husband long dead and her son married to Astoria Greengrass, I'm sure the company would be welcome. I also believe you'd be surprised how kind and reasonable Cissy is now that the darkness is gone. If anything has been a consolation from all that the war took away from me, is that its end gave me my sister back."

**What do you think, guys? I hope you feel inclined to stick around, this might be one for the long-run.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Narcissa extended her right arm out, feeling cold silk embrace her outstretched limb instead of finding a warm body she could push herself closer to. This sleepy confusion was quickly replaced with a well practiced heart drop of disappointment; a disappointment that Narcissa refused to engage with beyond acknowledging she had an obligation to feel it. After all, it was seven thirty in the morning, it would be absurd to expect her to decide who and what she was disappointed in - there were too many contenders, ranging from Lucius for not being there; herself, for missing Lucius in the first place; all the way to Limpy for not having her morning coffee already brewed for her.

As she mused this, the luxurious smell of coffee curled in the air, crawling from her bedside table and into the depths of her silky fortress, until with a barely audible huff, she acknowledged that Limpy alone stood innocent of causing anyone even the slightest of grief.

Eyes already shut, she squeezed them tighter; taking a deep breath of air in which she gathered all her pride, breathing into her chest the blind determination she needed to confront another day. Like royalty ascending from their throne, Narcissa emerged from her covers.

Alongside the porcelain cup of coffee, Limpy had spread out the day's issue of the Prophet; a detailed list of all the important transactions happening in the Ministry; a breakdown of the state of every enterprise and investment the Black's had; a small pile of letters she had received; and a reminder of her engagements for the day. She cringed inwardly when she saw that today was her great-nephew's birthday.

Of course, it had been in the back of her mind for the past few weeks, but having to confront the fact that for another year running, she would not be able to take part in celebrating the life of those few who remained alive in her family was a tall order for her to swallow with dignity. Andy had invited her to his party, trying to persuade her by mentioning that the party would be held in Grimmauld Place - a house were they held a handful of warm childhood memories. But despite Andy's protestations, she knew she wasn't welcome there. It was Teddy's birthday, he deserved to be surrounded by people who only had eyes for him, not a company distracted with sending her distrustful glares.

No, she had already sent him his basket of presents and she would have to be content with that.

Narcissa pointedly put her empty cup on the saucer and left her bed, her feet sinking into the thick carpet that covered most of the dark wooden panelled floors as she walked to the door that led into her closet. The room illuminated itself when she came in and her face narrowed in concentration as she decided what she would armour herself with for the day. Her left hand ran softly on all the different fabrics, the sea of rich greens and deep blacks was broken up with delicate embroidery, for after all - she was the widow Narcissa Black. She was one of the most powerful and influential women in wizarding society and she was going to damn well look the part. And not just that, she thought determinedly as she pulled out a glossy emerald dress, she was going to do some good today.

* * *

After the flurry of activity that was Teddy's birthday, the days trickled by for Hermione at an uncomfortably slow pace. She took to quietly pacing around the house from top to bottom, her hands behind her back and her head hunched down deep in thought.

The only thing that brought her out of her reverie was the arrival of the Prophet. Each morning she waited for the owl by the window and scoured the paper for any mention of Narcissa Black. Rarely did the woman disappoint. Between attending balls, banquets, commemorations, openings of new businesses, being present at signings of laws, guest at the ratifications of treaties; Narcissa Black's life and work seemed to revolve around being in an eternal party with the higher echelon's of society.

How, then, Hermione argued with herself, was she supposed to believe that Hippocrates, academic genius, was also Narcissa Black, socialite extraordinaire?

But with each new speech and statement the older witch gave, Hermione found herself becoming more and more intimate with the way Narcissa deliberately picked her words; her language as carefully cultivated as her closet.

After devouring all the fresh information the Prophet provided, Hermione would methodically re-read Hippocrates papers. It only took a few days for her to notice how Narcissa favoured using the subjunctive mood, both in writing and in speech, over the far more normal and simple indicative. Small turns of phrases used in the essays kept cropping up in her interviews. It is also became apparent quite quickly that Narcissa was following an agenda, whether consciously or unconsciously, where she focused on promoting the work of illustrious academics in the fields touched in Hippocrates work. She also seemed adamant in helping ministers pass bills to help fund research in Theoretical Magic whilst trying to delicately bring the subject of blood magic out of the taboo and more into the mainstream, whilst carrying out the normal obligatory work of muggle and muggleborn reparations.

After two weeks of immersing herself in pureblood's work and world, Hermione could no longer deny that Andy was right - Narcissa Black had unquestionably written the two most fascinating theses Hermione had ever encountered. It was a bizarre thought for her to entertain - the mother of a child who had set out to make her entire schooling experience miserable, and the widow of one Voldermort's most trusted death eaters, was suddenly the subject of Hermione's intellectual fascination.

The young woman finally came to her conclusion. She wouldn't be able to carry out her research on her own, she needed Hippocrates help. And furthermore, despite Hermione refusing to admit it, she was irrevocably curious to find out what more Narcissa Black had hidden behind that small but enchanting smile that had tricked the world into believing she was nothing more than a trophy wife.

**I currently have the plague so not being able to get to school has meant that the amount of time I have for writing has increased exponentially. Three cheers for feeling like death reheated ;) R&amp;R!**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

What a day, Narcissa thought tiredly as she closed the door to her room, noting with approval that Limpy had a roaring fire prepared for her. Diplomatic incompetence seemed rampant as of lately - between the Minister for Experimental Magic's distasteful jokes about squibs and Electra Selwyn's lamentations about the mistreatment of the Sacred Twenty-Eight; Narcissa had had to work hard to make sure that her fundraiser for combating all the rogue dementors that were still rampant around Britain was remembered for that, and not the guest's less than tactful comments.

On the bright side, if one were to ignore Electra's tipsy recitation of Cantankerus Nott's pureblood directory, and solely judge the evening on galleons raised - well, it was one for the books.

Narcissa walked over to her bed, sliding off her dress. She felt the soft satin gown caress her body gently like a lover as it fell carelessly to the ground. Letting her hair loose from the elaborate bun it was in, and wrapping her body in a sinfully soft silk gown, she tried not to think of the people the dress reminded her of as it explored her body on its way to the ground. Taking a small breath to compose herself, she went to sit on her small writing table by the fire. But before she could take her seat she double-took and almost tripped backwards.

Sitting squarely in the middle of her desk was a seemingly innocuous letter. Small in size; the parchment was just on the beige side of white, and written across the middle with dark blue ink in admirably neat and precise cursive handwriting was the name 'Hippocrates'.

Narcissa took a step back. Then a step forward.

She outstretched her arm to pick it up, but was too afraid to carry the action out.

How had this letter found her? She asked herself with unabashed horror. Only two people knew of her publications: one was dead, and the other had no interest whatsoever in such theorisations of magic.

Narcissa stood paralysed staring at the letter as her heart ran at a sickening pace. Hippocrates. Such a silly name, she reprimanded herself. As if she had ever healed anyone. As if she had ever been able to fix anything. She had made it her mission to deny herself her greatest talent. She didn't deserve it. She had done too much wrong in one lifetime to be able to justify using a medics name - to study a medics field.

Narcissa sunk into the plush wooden chair. Hiding her face in her hand as shame replaced shock.

The life of a socialite had been her self-imposed punishment. Wasting her days in vapid conversations with vapid people, her way to atone for her misused intellect. Yes, her wealth had always shielded her from outside judgement by lifting her from out of the crowd, but it had shut her up in gilded mansions, and isolated her in her huge expanses of private property. The wealth that had spared her and her family from Azkaban so many times, did not bring real acquittal, for it kept her in a jail cell as solitary as one on a rock in the middle of the sea.

But there's a fine line between penance and masochism, Narcissa reasoned with herself. So finally, she dropped her hand and faced the letter. She was Hippocrates, whether she liked it or not, and she would have to answer for it. She picked it up - letting her thumb run over the smooth, thick parchment where her name was written.

She turned the letter around; her curiosity increasing when she saw that the red wax that had been used to seal the letter had been stamped with a lion head emblem. So it had been a proud Gryffindor who had sussed her out, Narcissa thought sardonically. Trust a Gryffindor to blindly and boldly blast into something they had no idea what they were getting into.

With one last deep breath of resignation, Narcissa opened the letter.

_Dear Hippocrates,_

_It must come as a shock to receive this missive _\- well there's the understatement of the year, Narcissa thought sarcastically rolling her eyes -_ but if it's any consolation, I find myself just as surprised to find myself writing this letter. So in that regard, we stand on equal footing._

_It was purely by chance that I came across your papers; for as fate would have it, I stumbled upon a whole stack of issues of the Turkish Tangents and Talismans journal being used to support a rickety nightstand in my house. It was there, amongst articles exploring the reasons as to why puffapod's are detrimental to trolls, that I eventually found your two papers._

_The first - An Examination of Adalbert Waffling's Fundamental Laws of Magic - made me have to completely re-examine my understanding of magical theory. The second paper - When Magical Theory Meets Pragmatic Misuses - is, put simply, a groundbreaking piece of work that can pave the way for understanding the repercussions of the magic used in the Second Wizarding War. _

_It is much to my displeasure that whoever found the journals fit to serve as quick furniture reparation, also happened to rip the issue in which your second paper was published in half. For weeks I tried to find the missing half, or simply another copy. I went so far as to write to the editor (no reply) _\- Narcissa smiled at this, pleased in her choice of editor.

_I resigned myself to working on the assumption that what I had, was all Hippocrates would be able to help me with. It was not until two weeks ago when again, by chance, a mutual acquaintance of ours happened to hear me mention your name and revealed your identity to me._

It was decided - her schedule tomorrow would be wiped and Andromeda Tonks would be receiving a very angry visit from Narcissa.

_It would be dishonest of me to pretend that I was not conflicted about the revelation of your identity. However, after much consideration I have come to the conclusion it is not my place to judge any decision you might have made under extreme circumstances. After all, if your current efforts are sincere, then I cannot help but admire your bravery; for it takes great courage to abandon tradition and walk your own path._

Narcissa raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow in surprise.

_In conclusion, my intentions are the following: I plan on carrying out a thorough research to understand the consequences the wizarding world will have to face as a result of certain sorcery used in the war, and whether this can be mitigated. It would be an honour if you could assist me, on any extent, with this enterprise; for your expertise would be invaluable. _

_However, if this thought is disagreeable with you, would it be possible for you to send me a complete copy of your second paper? I would trouble you no more. _

_Please consider my proposal. I think we could do something extraordinary. _

_Your humble servant,_

_-Hermione Jean Granger _

Narcissa's eyes almost popped out when she saw who signed the letter. Well, wasn't this a surprise?

The pureblood folded the parchment and carefully put it back in its envelope. Maybe it wasn't so much a surprise after all. The girl did have a reputation that preceded her. How else could Mr Potter and that Weasley boy have made it out alive, victorious, without someone with some serious brains able to outwit the worst the Dark Lord could throw at them?

"Limpy." Narcissa called out softly.

"Yes, mistress?" The small house elf replied cheerfully as he apparated into the room.

"Could you please dig out my copy of Turkish Tangents and Talisman's for Miss Hermione Granger tomorrow morning? The one with my second paper, Limpy."

"Would mistress like Limpy to send it as well?" The elf asked.

"No, no - I'll send it myself. Thank you, Limpy."

The house elf bowed and immediately disappeared.

It took Narcissa a moment to process what she had just done. Had she - had she really just to decided to give Hermione Granger, of all people, a copy of a publication she had spent her entire life hiding from the world?

She was growing soft, she scoffed, turning off all the candles in the room with a flick of her wrist. But not soft enough to spare Andy from her wrath tomorrow. The fireplace still projected a soft light that cast long shadows, but what little remained of the fire would soon extinguish itself. Narcissa slipped into her cold bed, wondering if it was worth the effort to cast a heating charm. So - what was she to do with Miss Granger? The pureblood mused as drifted into sleep. What was she to do?

**Hope you guys are enjoying this :) As always, please r&amp;r!**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Wait... let me just get this right." Hermione said perplexed as she handed Andy a mug of hot chocolate. "Narcissa Black floo powdered into you house, muttered something about the oracle of Delphi and then cursed your ceiling so that there's a thunderstorm in all the rooms." Andromeda smiled and nodded. "And you're fine with this?"

Andy laughed, drying her hair with a towel. "I can't help it. It's been decades since I've seen little Cissy lose her temper like that. She's spent so long playing diplomat I thought I'd never see her rattled again!"

"I've got Teddy showered and changed - we'll be in the playroom!" Harry said poking his head into the kitchen as Teddy ran after him, ripples of laughter preventing the boy from running faster, his hair going through all the shades of neon.

"Cissa used to do this all the time in Hogwarts." Andy continued, the smile still illuminating her face. "I remember this one time Roberta Ringstar stole one of her bracelets - the girl had to sleep on the floor for two weeks because Slughorn couldn't figure out how to stop the lightning bolts that kept attacking anyone who sat on her bed. Dumbledore had to come fix it in the end; he allegedly had a fit of giggles when he saw what the fuss was all about. Best part is -" Andy stopped dramatically, "he gave Slytherin fifty points for exemplary sorcery!" Both women burst out laughing despite themselves.

"Well I'm sure Harry will be thrilled to have Teddy for a while." Hermione said grinning as she heard her best friend shouting something about dodging invisible trolls. "He hasn't been this excited since his birthday."

"It'll do them both good," Andy agreed, looking out into the distance, "even though I'm sure the curse will only last a few days." The older woman then whipped round to face Hermione "That reminds me! - Here." Andy pulled a soggy brown package from her bag. "Cissy left this for you."

Hermione took the dripping parcel and carefully untied the cord that held it together. The young witch noted with relief a careful charm had been placed to waterproof the inside.

"You're smiling weirdly." Andy said jokingly as Hermione carefully removed the two items inside the package.

"It's just..." Hermione started as she flicked to the right page in the Turkish Tangents and Talismans issue 782, forgetting to finish her sentence as she started reading the new material.

"It's just...?"

"It's just I never actually thought it would work." Hermione finished, looking up to the older witch with an expression that screamed Christmas had come early. Andy raised an eyebrow. "As in, writing to her." Hermione explained, tearing open the letter that had come in the parcel. "I never thought she would actually send me a copy! I genuinely thought I'd get a howler at the very least."

"Howler's aren't quite her style." Andy mused.

"Yes, well, when you arrived soaking wet with a couple of briefcases, I was bracing myself for being next on her list." Hermione read the letter. "Holy shit."

"What's wrong?" Andromeda asked in alarm.

"Nothing," Hermione said distantly, looking at the letter in disbelief. "Your sister... your sister has just invited me round hers. Look, listen to this - _'you are welcome to join me for afternoon tea at four o'clock tomorrow to discuss any questions you may have about the articles written under my pseudonym. Discretion on your part would be appreciated. My current residence is the Black Norfolk Fortress. I am sure my beloved sister would be happy to provide you with further directions.'"_

Andy snorted at this.

"This is unbelievable." Hermione said putting the letter down. "I'm going to meet Hippocrates."

"You mean Narcissa Black." Andy corrected and Hermione scrunched her nose in distaste.

"Let me be in denial a little longer?"

"Not if you accept the invitation."

Hermione huffed. "Fine. How do I get there?"

"Well there's two ways." Andy said leaning back into the her chair and stirring her hot chocolate. "Depends how long you want to take in getting there. Basically, there's the wizarding way and the muggle way."

"Muggle way." Hermione said without missing a beat.

"It'll take a while." Andy warned.

"I don't mind. It'll give me time to clear my head."

"Okay then... I suppose you do have the time if the meeting is at four." Andy grabbed a spare piece of paper and dipped a quill in ink. "I'll write it for you - it can be a bit complicated. You have to take a train from King's Cross to King's Lynn; then get a bus to Hunstanton; then change buses to Wells-next-the-Sea. Teddy loves a toy shop in that town, so sometimes we go the muggle way so we don't miss it when visiting Cissy." Andy re-dipped the quill. "But you get off at Bellamys Lane. It's about a half hour walk from there to Burnham Norton. The pub there isn't muggle, so you can ask for directions to the fortress from there. It's about ten minutes away."

Andy passed Hermione the piece of paper. "The landlord is a good man - Axylos, if I remember correctly. We used to spend the summer's at the fortress; not much to do there for a bunch of teenagers, so we always used to sneak down to the pub and see if we could get him to sell us firewhiskey."

"And did you manage?" Hermione asked, tucking the directions into the envelope where Narcissa's letter was stored.

"Sometimes." Andy replied with a laugh. "He'd always have a quiz for us when we went. If we got all the questions right, we got served. If we didn't, it was butterbeer and a table for us to do our summer homework on."

"I can't quite imagine the Black sisters losing all that often." Hermione said softly, unconsciously rubbing her forearm where her scar lay hidden.

"You got that right." Andy scoffed proudly. "Learnt how to stomach two bottles of vodkavenom at that pub." The older woman sighed and then wistfully muttered more to herself than her host, "those were different days..."

In that moment the door opened, and Harry walked in carrying Teddy in his arms.

"Tired." The young boy declared, rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Okay then, my boy." Andy said gently. "Let's get you to bed."

"I think I'll head up too. Long day tomorrow." Hermione said, grabbing some of the papers on the table. "Thanks for all your help, Andy. I'm really sorry about your roof - I'll help you clean up once it stops raining."

"Don't mention it. Have a good rest." The older witch said smiling. Hermione ruffled through Teddy's hair. "Sleep well, Teddy. You too Harry. You might not see me for breakfast though."

"Where are you off to?" Harry asked as the small party left the kitchen and moved into the narrow corridor.

"Remember I wrote to Hippocrates?" Harry nodded. "Well, I got a letter back. I've been invited for tea tomorrow."

"Are you sure it's safe trusting a stranger?" Harry asked as the boy in his arms nodded off to sleep.

"Don't worry, Harry. She's in safe hands." Andy said in an amused tone.

"Oh, so you know them?"

"You can say that."

"Well have a good time then, 'Mione." Harry said smiling. "I hope they're as cool as you've made them out to be."

"I'm sure they won't disappoint." Hermione grinned back, sharing a knowing look with Andromeda as she opened the door to her room.

Once inside she flopped onto her bed and kicked her shoes off. Hermione suspected that tomorrow would be one of the most bizarre days of her life. Who would she even meet tomorrow? Narcissa Black seemed to be a woman of contradictions. For a woman devoted entirely to the idea of family she had very little of it left. For a woman associated with the filthy values of purity she had surprisingly clean hands. And finally, for such an infamously prideful woman, she seemed almost ashamed of her greatest talent.

Hermione pulled the covers over her, staring at the narrow stream of light that the moon poured into her dark room. Haughty, arrogant, snobbish - those were the first words that came into her mind when she thought of the youngest Black sister. But Hermione's mind wandered to the polite letter, and then to the charmed paper that had been carefully wrapped around the journal. The magic that had kept the contents of the package dry felt warm and familiar under her fingertips even though she knew well it wasn't her place to feel familiar with it.

There began a soft tapping on the window. Hermione glanced up - a gentle drizzle had started.

The young witch huffed and buried her face in the pillow, determined to sleep. Slowly but surely she drifted off into apprehensive sleep. Dreams of three girls playing in elegant gardens and all their laughters and cries pulled Hermione from one emotion to the next. There was joy and love and wickedness and frenzy in those dreams. Hermione's heart was about to break all over again when her alarm went off and she bolted out of bed, counting the items in her room as she regained control of her breathing.

The ritual over, she pointedly set out to fill her knapsack with the items she would need for the day. Hermione went through all the motions, refusing to think about the dreams but unable to think of anything else. Before she knew it, her train had just passed Cambridge and she was heading into the Norfolk wilderness. Her view was filled with endless green fields, every shade of the colour contributing to the refreshing view outside her window.

Hermione's eyes closed as the sun shone too brightly, but instead what she saw was the sorting hat calling out 'Slytherin!' with one girl after another. The greens she had just seen in the fields all merged into one pulsating entity whilst the silver Slytherin snake crawled amidst all the shades of rich green.

A disembodied voice announced they had just passed Downham Market. Hermione's heart sank, she was only a few stops away from hers.

The walk to Burnham Norton would do her good, she reasoned with herself. She was probably just detoxifying after having spent so long inhaling London fumes. Plus, she was meeting Narcissa Black - the mother of the boy who had made a considerable part of her childhood miserable. She was bound to be nervous. The walk would also help to stifle that.

Partly due to the exercise and partly due to sheer stubbornness, by the time she reached the pub to ask for directions, Hermione Granger was walking with her head held high. She had a destination to go to and it was almost three thirty. She would not be late.

Hermione made her way down to the coast. Standing about two thousand feet into the sea was a 16th century fortress built of white marble. Hermione deduced that thanks to it's location in the sea it was pretty easy to conceal from the muggles - an invisibility enchantment or two and the place must've vanished for them, lost in the dark waters. Hermione took a deep breath and walked onto the pier that connected the land to the impressive building. The fortress was a tight hexagonal - three floors of windows ran around it, with six windows per face wall. As Hermione approached it, and the sound of the waves got louder beneath her, she got a better view of the huge imposing black door she was about to knock on. The Black crest was sculpted into the stone that lay on top of the door and the contrast between the white marble and the black wooden door made knocking on it even less inviting.

But the Gryffindor didn't bristle. She rapped quickly on the door three times.

The door immediately opened, inviting her into the luxurious fortress. Inside was a large hexagonal ballroom. The three hundred and sixty view around the sea must've made for some spectacular parties, Hermione thought, begrudgingly impressed.

"You must be Miss Granger." A small squeaky voice said bellow her. "Mistress has yet to arrive from her meeting with ministers." Hermione looked down to see a brightly smiling house elf wearing a pristine white cloth to cover himself. "Limpy will take Miss Granger to the library to await Mistress."

Hermione nodded, knowing that it was best to just follow the elf's instructions than to attempt to indoctrinate him. "Thank you, Limpy." The house elf smile wider at this.

"Just follow Limpy." He said as he made his way to the eastern part of the room. Between each large window there either hung a portrait or there stood a small door. The stunning view of the sea distracted the eye from them, even when each portrait had a little candle illuminating the painting, making it possible to see how the people moved around from one frame to another, chatting amicably between them. Having reached the desired door, Limpy opened it and scuttled up the stairs. He opened the door that stood at the top of the stair case and bowed as Hermione entered the library.

There was a fire roaring on the far wall to her right, next to the two enormous windows that made up most of the wall opposite her. The rest of the room was filled with dark wooden bookcases. Each shelf filled with row after row of leather bound books.

"Miss can stay here while waiting for Mistress." Limpy announced. "Just say 'Limpy' and Limpy will be happy to attend to anything Miss would like." The little elf then disapparated.

Hermione, dumbstruck, made her way to the fireplace. There were two leather armchairs sitting around a medium sized desk, with books already splayed opened. Curiosity overtook her.

The Boukolion? Hermione observed with interest, flicking a few pages forward from where it had been left. So Narcissa was brushing up on Greek rituals of prophecy. Hermione scrunched her face in concentration. Why did that seem relevant?

The door opened loudly and Hermione's head snapped up - there, standing on top of the staircase, was Narcissa Black, head held high in all her opulent glory. Neither witch said anything, both seemingly shocked by the situation they found themselves in. Hermione's gaze travelled from Narcissa's pointy black heels, to her thin smooth calves that were wrapped in dark stockings, to the black tailored dress that floated around her knees until it hugged her small waist and enveloped her chest in the dark satin material, the conservative cut covering her clavicles. Hermione's eyes rested on the heavy set of pearls that dangled around the pureblood's neck until she mustered the courage to look up to Narcissa's face - full berry lips, high sculpted cheekbones, incisive blue eyes and a complicated bun - Hermione could only think of one thing; the woman standing proudly in front of her, all grace and dignity, was a woman born in the wrong era.

Narcissa smoothed out an imaginary crease on the folds of her dress, a nervous habit disguised as good manners. It had been a long time since she had felt so scrutinised. She had taken being welcomed unquestionably for granted and now she felt at a loss. Since a young age, men had broken their backs trying to bend at her every whim, and women had always been attracted to her popularity and the perks of a friendship with Narcissa Black would inevitably bring. The young woman in front of her seemed neither hypnotised by her beauty nor impressed by her social standing. Narcissa was almost disappointed in herself - what else could she have expected from Harry Potter's best friend? This was all a big mistake. Why had she let things get this far? She should've just sent the girl the copy of the journal and kept her peace. But no, Narcissa sighed, she had had a moment of weakness - the mere possibility of redemption enough to invite a former enemy into her house, and now the Oracle of Delphi was on her back. Well, the girl was here now, and if anything, Narcissa Black refused to be impolite.

"Miss Granger." The older witch at last offered, moving further into the room.

"Miss Black, thank you for inviting me."

The young girl stood up from the armchair, extending her arm for a handshake. For a split second, Narcissa was taken aback. She hadn't expected Hermione Granger, of all people, to seem so relaxed around her; so without thinking it any further she walked up to the girl and shook her hand.

**Huge thanks for the reviews guys! They really do make my day :) This chapter is a little longer than usual to make up for the fact I'm uploading it later than I would've like to. Hope you've enjoyed it! **


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

With the same clumsy awkwardness of two teenagers on a first date Hermione and Narcissa sat down on the facing armchairs.

"Would you like milk in your tea?" Narcissa asked politely as she poured Hermione a cup.

"Please, no sugar though."

"So I take it you found my articles being used to fix rickety furniture?" The pureblood asked, trying to hide how amused she was by this. She handed the younger witch her teacup, making uncertain eye contact.

"Yes," Hermione replied confidently, Narcissa's quiet mirth spreading to her. "Under a nightstand, to be specific."

"Ah. That was probably Regulus' doing." Narcissa said fondly as she finished preparing her own teacup. "The boy got me to publish the articles in the first place - got a subscription to the journal to show his support." She leaned back into the cushy chair and took a sip of her drink. "But he had a tendency to recycle things pragmatically after he had used them."

Hermione smiled. "I'm glad he did. If he'd just thrown them out I would probably be re-designing the muggle studies course; which although satisfying, probably isn't as exciting as this."

Narcissa laughed quietly into her teacup, "I'm sure Andromeda would disagree with your definition of exciting."

"That's because Andy doesn't understand why this is important."

"Why _is_ this important, Miss Granger?" Narcissa asked, turning to stare at the muggleborn piercingly. Her tone was not accusatory but Hermione still bristled.

"The war -" Hermione started, looking down at the creamy brown contents of her teacup. "The war used very destructive magic, Miss Black." The younger witch looked up to see Narcissa's dignified demeanour marred with a sad resignation. "The sort of magic that poisons. The effects of black magic don't go away once the caster has been banished. It takes a life of its own. Balance needs to be restored."

"It sounds like you have your heart set on championing this cause." Narcissa drawled. "Saving the world once isn't enough for the golden girl?

Hermione sighed. She knew getting Narcissa to help her was going to be a tall order, she just needed to be patient. Find common ground. "It's not a question of saving the world again, Miss Black. It's a question of finishing the job I began."

"I think you'll find that the job is much larger than you bargained for."

"Which is why I'm asking for your help."

The two women stared at each other in a standstill, Narcissa observing how the young woman in front of her was all hope and promise and optimism. So much of her just wanted to give it all up and join the muggleborn in her reckless naivety.

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything." The pureblood began cryptically, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea. "But it is wrong." She added milk. "No matter how fast light travels," she stirred in a small cube of sugar, "it finds that darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it."

"Then lets not disappoint." Hermione replied instinctively, and despite herself, Narcissa smiled widely.

"You are very persistent, Miss Granger."

"So I am told."

Hermione edged closer to the table that separated them. "Miss Black, for all I know, you could be right. This could be pointless. I might make a bigger mess than the one there already is. I might not be able to help anybody."

"So why try?" Narcissa asked curiously.

"Because it is my understanding that the purpose of life is to be defeated by greater and greater things."

"Your argument entails that surrendering from the start would achieve just as much."

"But at least it would be impossible to say that we didn't try when we had the minds to."

"If your argument has a counter-intuitive consequence, that counts as an objection - regardless of any appeals to pride." Narcissa bit back.

"There is nothing counter-intuitive in acknowledging the possibility of defeat."

Hermione sighed and ran her hand through her hair. "Miss Black..." She began softly. "I look around our world and I see so many vestiges of the war tainting our present. We've all gone through so much - we deserve our peace from that darkness."

"Do remind me, Miss Granger, what is the first Fundamental Law of Magic?" Narcissa asked with the authority of a teacher at the head of a classroom.

Hermione shivered from the cold drawling demand but answered nonetheless. "Tamper with the deepest mysteries - the source of life, the essence of self - only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind."

"Are you truly, genuinely prepared for such consequences?" Narcissa asked coldly.

"Yes."

It was Narcissa's turn to sigh and rub her eyes tiredly. Hermione noted with curiosity that this was the most human she had ever seen the older witch look like. She had grown so accustomed to the regal, picture perfect image that was splashed on her newspaper every day that she had almost forgotten that the legend in front of her was just a woman.

"You know, the last person who said that to me," Narcissa said not bothering to hide the resignation in her voice, "was the Dark Lord."

Hermione's stomach dropped and for a moment, as her visioned blurred, she was acutely aware of where she was sitting in - the house of the wife of one of the most notorious death eaters of all time. The sister of the monster who had killed so many whom she loved. The woman who saved Harry and decided which side would win the war. Hermione shook her head, willing the nausea to disappear.

"We all say that ours is an exceptional case, that we are innocent." Narcissa let out a small, hollow laugh. "We are all exceptional cases! We all want to appeal over something. Each of us demands to be innocent, at any price, even if our being so means accusing the human race and heaven." The pureblood sighed again, seemingly struggling to pick between two conflicting emotions within her; until at last, she said - "I helped make much of the mess you're trying to clean up, Miss Granger. I - I am responsible for a lot of it. But it would be a greater sin if I left you on your own to fix it."

"Does - Does this mean you'll help me?" Hermione asked astounded.

The pureblood nodded slowly, giving the younger girl a small, sad smile. "Yes, Miss Granger. I'll help you. On one condition."

"Of course - what is it?" Hermione asked hurriedly.

"Don't judge me too harshly."

Hermione's heart sank as she saw a crack in the proud witch's posture; so slowly she smiled at her, trying to compensate for all the coldness in the sea fortress with a smile. "I can do that."

Narcissa faltered from the warmth the younger girl was radiating and from the pit of her stomach she felt the need to confess rise up to her throat until she couldn't hold the horror in her any longer. "I've done terrible things."

"It doesn't make you terrible person." Hermione responded softly. "Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing themselves - you've done that. Don't you know, Miss Black, that true nobility isn't about being better than everyone else; it's about being better than you used to be."

Narcissa nodded, gracefully brushing off her moment of weakness so effortlessly Hermione was almost convinced it didn't happen. "It seems we have a deal then, Miss Granger. You must forgive my busy schedule, we shall have to work around it."

"I understand." Hermione replied amicably.

The older witch picked up a thick notebook on the table and flicked to the right page. "Shall we commence our investigations on Thursday? I have a free space before supper. Can you come around seven? - you're most welcome to stay to eat."

"Yes, that works for me."

"I look forward to seeing you then, Miss Granger." Narcissa said, automatically receding into the formality that had been beaten into her.

"Likewise."

**You guys are fab! Your reviews seriously make my day, thank you so much to each and every one of you! Sorry I couldn't reply to those who weren't signed in. What do you guys think of this chapter? The style is a bit out of my comfort zone.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

"Sooooooo...?" Andy began the moment Hermione opened the door to Grimmauld Place. "How did it go?"

Hermione half smiled as she put her scarf on the peg by the entrance and took her coat off. "It was... alright, I guess."

"Just alright...?" The older witch pressed as they moved into the kitchen.

"Erhh... well, she's agreed to help me." Hermione offered as she filled the kettle with water.

"Let me do that," Andy said, shooing the younger woman into a chair. "You just tell me how you convinced Cissa to help you."

Hermione laughed quietly to herself, leaning her head onto her hand as she reclined tiredly on the table. "Your sister is exhausting, Andy."

It was the older witches turn to laugh. "You got that right - as intense as a streeler's venom that one."

"Andy... are you comparing your sister to a giant snail that changes colour on an hourly basis and deposits behind it a trail so venomous that it shrivels and burns all vegetation over which it passes?"

"I suppose I am."

The two women burst out laughing.

"No," Hermione began as she took the mug Andy offered her. "She's... actually quite nice." The young witch took a sip of her tea, narrowing her eyes in concentration. "Very polite. Very, _very_ polite."

"If I had to describe Cissy in two words I think I'd go for 'very polite' as well." Andy said warmly, taking a sip of her own tea. "We were raised to be charming, after all."

"Charming." Hermione mulled. "Yes, she's definitely that. But there's just... something about her I can't quite figure out."

"Ah - the mystery of Narcissa Black!" Andy exclaimed with amusement. "Many a man has been entranced by it, driven mad by it!"

Hermione gently swatted the older witch. "I'm not joking."

"Neither am I." Andy teased.

Hermione huffed in resignation. "Well, the point is - I'm to go back on Thursday and not reveal her identity to anyone. Do you think I should drop Fleur an owl?"

The older witch ran a hand through her brown curls as she leaned into her chair. "I don't think you need to. Fleur's always struck me as a very discreet person."

"You know, I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm actually looking forward to going back there again." Hermione confessed shyly.

"I told you you'd like her." Andy said with a triumphant smile.

"I just..." Hermione started, trying to articulate her thoughts. "I just can't reconcile Narcissa Black with Narcissa Malfoy. They feel like two completely different people. In my head she's still a Malfoy, staring at me as I get tortured in Malfoy Manor. But then..." Hermione paused hesitantly. "But then I'm with her... and I understand why she stood there and I can't help but forgive her." The young witch scratched her head. "Well, I say I understand, but I don't really. I guess it's just a feeling."

"Sometimes 'just a feeling' is the clearest explanation out there - not everything is meant to be articulated." Andy said kindly.

"I'm not a fan of that school of thought." Hermione teased back.

"I know you're not. Neither is she. You two are a match made in heaven."

Hermione opened her mouth to complain, but before she could form a retort, the doorbell rang and Andromeda had drifted off to open the door.

"Hey, 'Mione. Brought this one along with me." Ginny said as she walked into the kitchen. Ron dragged his feet behind his little sister, his usual glow subdued. Harry's loud footsteps running down the staircase filled the empty place where Ron's usual jokes would have been. Hermione got up to hug her friend - there was only one thing, or, well, one person, that made Ron act like this.

"What's happened now?" Hermione asked warmly. Ron shrugged stubbornly as Harry patted his back and pulled him into a hug.

"You look like you need something strong, mate." Harry offered, giving Ginny a quick peck on the cheek and exchanging a knowing glance.

"I'll leave you children to it." Andromeda said good-humoredly as she left the kitchen. "Don't stay up too late."

"Yes, mother." Hermione bit back.

"...so she says I can't go to the Quidditch match cause it's her great aunt's birthday or something!" Ron moaned in the background. "It's not like that old hag hasn't had a hundred and five other birthdays and this is the _final_!"

"Is this the great aunt that's willed all her fortune goes to Lavender after her death?" Hermione asked.

Ron paused for a moment. "Yeah... I suppose it is."

"That's probably why Lavender is so insistent then." Ginny admonished. "I'm sure the last thing she wants to do is spend the day listening to her great aunt telling her off for not being married yet." Ginny took a swing of her butterbeer. "As to be expected, the girl's doing it for the money. Should've been sorted into Slytherin that one."

"Hey!" Ron protested. "That's my girlfriend you're talking about."

"And you two were made for each other." Ginny teased.

"I dunno," Ron started, "sometimes I think we're perfect. But then I just don't understand her. Like sometimes," he said leaning forward, "she does her hair up and while she's doing it she'll turn around and give me this smile... and it's just perfect. Like we're in synch. But then, she'll do stuff like this - she'll just tell me what to do without an explanation and I just think she's being hysterical. Like I'm not in on the plan, just a part of it."

"She probably thinks she doesn't need to tell you." Harry offered.

"I just dunno if we're perfect for each other."

"Oh, Ronald." Hermione said with exasperation. "People always fall in love with the most perfect aspects of each other's personalities. Who wouldn't? Anybody can love the most wonderful parts of another person. The real challenge is - can you accept the flaws? Can you look at Lavender's faults and say, 'I can work around that. I can make something out of it.'?" Hermione took Ron's hand into her own. "The good stuff is always going to be there, Ron, and it's always going to be pretty and sparkly, but the crap underneath you can ruin you."

"Yeah, Ron - do you really think me and this one are in perfect harmony twenty four seven?" Ginny said leaning into Harry's chest.

"Yeah, but I just don't know if me and Lav are... soulmates."

"There's no such thing as a perfect soulmate." Ginny replied.

"Yeah," Hermione continued, "if you meet someone and you think they're perfect, you should run as fast as you can in the other direction."

"But-" Ron tried interjecting.

"No buts, mate." Harry said laughing. "The person you're meant to be with is the person that pushes all your buttons, pisses you off on a regular basis, and makes you face your crap."

At last Ron smiled. "Maybe you're right." He stood up from his chair. "I think I'm going to go back home. Talk it out with her."

"That sounds like a good plan." Hermione supplied warmly as he took a pinch of floo powder.

"Hey mate, can I have your tickets if you're not going?" Harry teased.

"Piss off." Ron laughed back as he stepped into the fire.

Once the green flames died out, Ginny mused, "Those two really are perfect for each other."

"Tell me about it." Hermione replied. "Can't believe I was envious of them at one point."

Harry poured them all a drab of firewhiskey.

"Yeah... you two were never going to work." Ginny said, taking a sip of her drink. "You've got too much soul to be handled by someone who has never been passionate."

"Ouch!" Harry exclaimed amused. "That's your brother, you know."

Ginny shrugged innocently. "My point exactly - I know him." The redhead then turned to Hermione. "But," she began, the strong drink already pushing her courage, "that does beg the question - who will the great Hermione Granger finally settle on?"

Hermione rolled her eyes, finding this well-trodden conversation far more amusing than she should. "I shall die an old spinster surrounded by all the books I was intending, but never managed to read." The three friends laughed.

"I dunno I see someone -" Ginny said in a mock mysterious voice, "I see someone wild and exotic! Someone whom my mother will disapprove of -"

"That won't be hard, your mother is still not over me and Ronniekins breakup."

Ginny shushed her, lifting the hood of her robe over her head to add to the dramatic effect. "Not just my mother then - you and your lover will shock the whole wizarding community! But it won't matter to either of you that your pictures are splashed over the papers with special featured articles of you in Witch Weekly!"

"But lets be fair on her!" Harry joined in, lifting his own hood and lowering the pitch of his voice. "They'll be someone as smart as you! Mysterious, with a tragic past to give Greek tragedy a run for its money. But they'll be beautiful!"

"And rich!" Ginny interjected. "And you two will adore each other, and have loads of adventures together!"

"Shocking the world both with your romance and all that you accomplish together!" Harry added.

"But we, your dear, close friends, will be the only one's to understand this passionate, burning love affair. We'll accept it, regardless of how ill-fated it may seem. Because we know..."

"Yes, we know..." Harry continued, "that no purer love has graced this earth for centuries. Apart from ours, of course." He added quickly.

"It has been fated." Ginny finished with mock finality.

For a moment the three friends stared at each other in silence, until at least, simultaneously, they burst out laughing.

"Where?" Hermione began, tears rolling down her face as splutters of laughter cascaded out of her and the other two roared with laughter. "Where in Merlin's pants did that come from?"

"Just - just you see, Hermione Granger," Ginny said, barely able to get the words out. "I demand a hundred galleons for my prophetic skills once it happens."

"I'm afraid you'll be waiting a long time." Hermione spluttered back.

"That's fine, I'm a pat-" Ginny doubled over laughing. "I'm a patient person."

Finally, wiping the the tears from her face, Hermione stood up and put the firewhiskey back in its cabinet. "I think we've all had enough of this for one night. I'm going to head upstairs before the two of you start making lists of potential people who meet your staggering list of demands."

"What can we say, we just want the best for you." Harry said innocently, his eyes sparkling with the remnants of the mirth that still tickled his chest.

"Yeah, yeah... good night you two." Hermione replied sarcastically.

"Yes, goodnight, future Mrs-"

Hermione closed the heavy wooden door resolutely before she could hear who Ginny had decided to couple her with.

With an easy smile the young witch walked down the narrow corridor that led to the staircase. The dim light that was meant to illuminate her path was more effective at casting shadows of all the old and bizarre objects neither she nor Harry had had the heart to throw out. As her ears settled on the silence, she heard more than felt the soft draft of wind that haunted the entrance of the house. Goosebumps spread through the length of her arms as she gave her back to the door to go up the staircase, but as she lifted her body onto the first step she almost fell as a shooting agony from her forearm delivered dark, heavy poison straight to her heart.

Panting, she staggered up the staircase, her brain pulsating against her skull in a synchronised rhythm with the words mudblood digging deeper into skin. The little light there had been flickered on and off; each time it came back on, it was dimmer than it had been before. _Just a few more steps..._ Hermione willed herself. _Just a few... more... steps... _

She leaned her body weight on the doorknob, the cold bronze providing a brief respite for her hand which felt like it was on fire; but her heat quickly warmed the metal and it too felt like a source of dark energy through which electrical pulses burned their way up her veins, into the deep scars that spelled that nasty little word, and then, reenergised from the hatred that carved them spread out to the rest of her body.

Hermione managed to unfasten her hand from the knob and use the momentum to swing her door open. Half blinded, she stumbled to her desk where her cauldron bubbled under an invisible fire and frenziedly threw out all the pens and pencils she held in a mug, and used that as cup to scoop out some of her potion.

One sip of the concoction was enough for the witch to peacefully close her eyes and crash face forward onto the floor, too gone in her dreamless slumber to feel anything.

**I promise some Narcissa next chapter. And for those wondering about the romance - all good things for those who wait ;) R&amp;R! **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"Thought I'd find you here." Andy said softly from the door.

Narcissa almost fell from her chair. "Andromeda! Do not scare me like that! I could've hexed you!"

Andy gave her little sister an arrogant lopsided smile as she walked towards where she was in front of the large window. "And I could've blocked you."

"You keep telling yourself that, 'Dromeda." Narcissa scoffed with good humour as she sat up straight, making room for her sister to sit next to her on the malachite camelback sofa.

"What are you looking for tonight?" Andy asked her, taking a peek into the lavish brass telescope that stood in front of them as she sat down. "Ah..." Andy sighed sadly recognising the constellation.

"I'm sorry-" Narcissa began, her cheeks flushing from shame.

"No, no," Andromeda reassured the younger witch. "Don't worry - you have every right to miss her. Hades, sometimes I can't stop myself from missing her too."

"It feels... wrong, to miss her." Narcissa confessed. "But I really do. I miss our sister, and it feels wrong. That's not something anyone should feel wrong about... but I do - and still, I miss her."

"She chose to go into that darkness, Cissy." Andy replied kindly. "I can already see the guilt in your eyes - this was on her. It was her choice. There was nothing you could've done to save her."

"There was so much I could've done." Narcissa whispered softly. "You see, Bella... Bella in her madness prayed for storms, dreaming that those storms would bring her peace. I should've... I should've done so much more. Family is supposed to be everything, after all."

"So your plan is to atone by staring at the stars?" Andy asked gently, leaning into the chair as she watched all the delicately drawn astronomical movements dancing on the walls and ceilings.

"It's a start." Narcissa replied tersely, unable to suppress the little smile that pulled on her lips; both witches chuckled quietly. Narcissa took her older sister's hand into her own and sighed contently. "I remember crying over you, you know." She said as she turned to look into her older sister's dark eyes. "And I don't mean a couple of tears and being blue. I'm talking about collapsing and screaming at the moon."

"Oh Cissa..." Andy said gently, pulling her proud sister into her arms. "We're okay now."

"Why did it take us this long?" Narcissa asked quietly.

Andromeda frowned... "I'm not quite sure anymore. I guess we both got wrapped up in our own worlds. Our own wars."

Narcissa laughed hollowly. "That sounds like us." The younger witch then reluctantly pulled back from her sister, remembering at last that it wasn't normal for Andy to casually join her in late night astronomy sessions anymore. "What can I do for you, 'Dromeda?"

"You can start by lifting that curse you set on my house." Andy said admonishingly.

"Oh, yes... that. I had almost forgotten." Narcissa said with a small, innocent, _je ne sai quoi _shrug of the shoulders. "I'll pop by first thing in the morning."

"That'll do for one night then." The older witch said yawning. "I better be back."

"But you just got here." Narcissa said indignantly, and Andromeda couldn't help but break out smiling - her sister sounded exactly the way she remembered when they were kids and it was time for her and Bella to go back to Hogwarts.

"And it's one o'clock in the morning, Cissy." Andy said standing up. "I thought I'd pop by because I couldn't get to sleep and I saw it was a clear night so I imagined you'd be up too. But it's late and we should both go to bed."

"Always the responsible one." Narcissa muttered under her breath.

"Someone's got to be sensible around here." Andy bit back full of mirth as she headed to the door. "Cissy..."

"Hmm?"

"Hermione..." the older witch started, playing with the knob nervously.

"What about her, 'Dro?" Narcissa asked casually.

"She's a special one, that one."

"I know." Narcissa replied without hesitation.

"Look out for her, won't you?" Andy asked her sister.

Narcissa understood the responsibility her sister was giving her. She didn't reply right away, hesitating in a way she rarely did, for Narcissa knew there was much to be said, but was confined in that moment to saying only a little. At last she nodded to Andromeda, "she's in safe hands, 'Dro."

"Good. Get some sleep then, Cissy." Andy said, opening the door. "Merlin knows I need it."

Narcissa watched her older sister close the door, leaving her alone again. Her sisters had the bad habit of running off, away from her and into the midst of the battle; leaving her unable to pick between them; leaving her stationary, waiting for them to come back to her - _family is everything, after all_; she thought sarcastically to herself.

But now... now she had to keep an eye out for the Granger girl. She remembered leading the muggleborn and her little band of misfits into Malfoy Manor when the snatchers had caught them. They had been just a bunch of kids trembling with terror; that included her Draco. With much shame she remembered how she had blurted out that she recognised the girl, fear pushing her to ask Draco to confirm. The muggleborn's deep brown eyes had bored into hers as they shed reluctant tears and the whole scene broke down into chaos - her husband fighting Bella over who called the Dark Lord; the Snatchers squabbling over gold; her sister screeching about swords and banks... her sister - all prodigious skill and no conscience.

And then... the screaming.

Some of her nights were still haunted by those screams, all terrible and drawn out and nauseating as they mixed with her sisters' voice. As Narcissa had watched her sister draw wand and blade against the Granger girl, she had had a crystal clear view of how broken beyond repair her family had become. The girl writhing with agony on her carpet was just a girl - how had things gotten this far? How had she and Lucius sunken this low, why had they dragged Draco down with them, and Bella - when had she lost her soul? She remembered how she almost threw up when her sister, her kind, brave, over-protective sister had given the muggleborn away to Greyback.

After that she just remembered the chandelier breaking and dragging Draco away from harm and seeing Dobby, and then her sister asking her to kill Dobby, but how was she going to kill Dobby? Dobby had been there when she'd married Lucius, taking care of her every time things got out of hand - they had both gone through it together; only Dobby had been the one who managed to get away. In those last few moments she managed to send the little house elf a look of gratitude when he disarmed her, knowing she would have been unable to live with herself if she did him any harm.

Then the Dark Lord arrived and everything became muddy with agony, the only thing she could see through the tears being those scared, brown eyes begging her for mercy. The same brown eyes that now looked at her inquisitively with compassion and curiosity. There was something about the Granger girl, well, she definitely wasn't a girl anymore; but there was still something about her that felt just like home.

Narcissa felt... comfortable around her, she decided. Maybe a bit too comfortable. The muggleborn had a knack for saying the right thing that got Narcissa to drop her mask and speak frankly. It was refreshing, but the older witch was still hesitant - there was only one possible outcome to this situation; someone would get hurt.

When had she become such a cynic? She asked herself sarcastically. Maybe 'Dromeda was right and she should go to bed before she started spouting verses of metaphysical poetry.

As Narcissa absently went through her nightly routine her mind floated back to the Oracle and the letter they had sent her the other day. After spending most of her meeting with the Ladies of Charity inconspicuously translating the ancient greek (the Oracle of Delphi was terribly traditional) instead of listening to what new social issue those ladies of high society wanted to focus on this season, she had managed to fairly accurately translate the message the priestess had sent her:

"_Once lions learn to rest in snakes' lairs, light all the lanterns! - shine them bright on all Black. When fighting for the sacred, the snake cannot apologise for its poison, just like the lion cannot apologise for its bite. Seek not permission for peace, settle not for the jejune. Plunge, plunge, plunge!"_

Narcissa had noted it was very on the verbose side for the priestess, she would have to send a generous offering to the Sanctuary; maybe a statue, the Black family hadn't donated a statue in quite a few centuries, maybe it was time. This was one of the oldest responsibilities of being part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight - to receive oracles and make offerings. Approximately every decade, or before a serious upheaval of events, the head of each family would receive a personalised oracle in its typical, grandiose, if not occasionally cringe-worthy language. Trying to decrypt the babbles, despite their seemingly obvious symbology, well... that was an entirely different matter.

As Narcissa closed her eyes, the priestess' words lulled in her mind... _plunge, plunge, plunge!_

* * *

_When will this man stop speaking?_ Narcissa asked herself furiously. Miss Granger was soon to arrive to Black Fortress and the conference on post-war economics was overrunning.

"In conclusion," the bald, wheezy man at last spluttered to Narcissa's relief, "our purchases reflect, deep ineradicable emotional needs, most prominently the assertion of self-identity." Narcissa eyed her pocket-watch; 20 minutes overrun, this was quite frankly rude. "We are highly social animals," the pureblood raised an offended eyebrow - there was only one animal in the room, and that was the animal who was overstepping his time, "and a lot of our spending is governed by its anticipated effect on our relationships. It is my argument that businesses make money not, primarily, by conjuring up false desires, but by identifying and satisfying real ones. Thank you very much."

Narcissa suppressed the sigh of relief that bubbled in her as she clapped politely along with the audience and with barely contained impatience she tried making her way out of the hall.

"Narcissa!" Called out a familiar voice.

Closing her eyes to regain her composure she took a deep breath, plastered a huge smile on her face and turned to face the alarmingly overweight and slightly terrifying heiress of the Bulstrode family. "Violetta! What a pleasure. Don't you think it was a terribly insightful conference?" Narcissa asked trying to get all the pedantic pleasantries over with as quickly as possible.

"Quite so. The old gang has a table reserved at the Phoenix Platters. Do tell me you'll come - we're all dying to hear what you make of this." Violetta said enthusiastically, her large diamond earrings bobbing along precariously with her head movements.

"I'm afraid I can't." Narcissa said, almost surprised by how sincerely apologetic she sounded, even to herself. "Tell the boys it'll have to be another night. Oh, and don't order that Louis Roederer Millesime champagne," Narcissa said leaning into the other witch, "between you and me, that rosé is not worth the bottle it's corked in."

"Oh Cissy, this is why we need you!" Violetta complained dramatically.

"Another day, Vi!" Narcissa said, winking cheekily at the witch as she hurried to the exit, not letting her respond. They were going to hold this one against her, she concluded.

There would be no escaping the old gang next time unless she wanted them to start asking what she was up to and that was simply not an option.

Narcissa made her way down the gilded hall, uninterested in all the gauche decoration. Once she pushed open the door that led to the cold London street, she quickly glanced side-ways to double check there weren't any stray muggles, and with a faint pop, apparated home.

"Miss Granger, you must forgive me - it seems I'm developing the bad habit of arriving late to my own invitations."

"Hermione - call me Hermione." The younger witch said warmly as she looked up at her, amusement playing on her features as she rested her head on her hand. "And it's no worry, I know you have a busy schedule. Plus, these have kept me company." She said nodding towards the large pile of books in front of her.

"Thank you for your understanding... Hermione." The pureblood experimented with the new syllables, savouring each one as the rolled by her tongue. "And call me Narcissa. But what have you been up to?" She asked curiously, sitting next to the younger witch and taking a look at the books she spread out on the table. The fire was roaring, and when she turned, a steaming cup of tea had appeared on the coffee table. As Hermione gathered her thoughts and notes, Narcissa couldn't help but marvel at how blissful this was.

"I've been trying to categorise the mental, physical and magical and their properties into substances and essences and features but I think I've muddled it a bit." Hermione said, passing Narcissa a parchment with crossed out charts.

"Substances have ontological independence - they can exist in their own right; they do not depend on another entity in order to exist." Narcissa muttered as she grabbed a quill and inked it. "Mental properties are not the same as physical properties, just as neither of those are the same as magical ones."

"Yeah, yeah, like you said in your paper - there is a correlation between them, but not a necessity." Hermione said pulling out a black leather bound notebook and flicked to the right page.

"Exactly," Narcissa said approvingly. "However, an essence is the set of attributes that make a substance what it fundamentally is. Without its essence, a substance loses it's identity. Magic, alas, is not an essence - that's why it can live on after it has been cast, independently of its caster." Narcissa handed Hermione the corrected paper.

"So the mind's essence is logical reasoning," Hermione confirmed, admiring the pureblood's exquisitely elegant handwriting. "The essence of material things, is extension; and the essence of magic is... emotion?"

"Why do you think wands have personalities?" Narcissa said flashing the younger witch a smile. Hermione smiled back, but winced.

"That concealment charm might do wonders for hiding a bruise, Hermione, but it won't actually help with it." Narcissa said kindly, her tone implying no judgement.

"How-?"

"I've lived my entire life surrounded by temperamental people." Narcissa said as she stood up in the search for something. "I've cast so many I can spot that charm from across the room."

"I just fell." Hermione supplied, suddenly feeling the need to justify herself.

"Okay." Narcissa replied, unable to keep some of the disbelief from her voice.

"I sometimes have trouble sleeping," Hermione quickly added. "I make my own sleeping potions but I think I let this batch strengthen too long - one sip and I crashed face forward."

"Well lets see the damage." Narcissa said softly as she sat back down on her chair but Hermione seemed hesitant. "I promise I'll have seen worse." The older witch said with a small smile. Hermione huffed in resignation and turned her head so the pureblood could have access to her left side. Amused that Hermione refused to un-cast the spell herself, Narcissa touched Hermione's cheek with feather-light weight in order to feel where the magic ran. Slowly, Narcissa's fingers ran from Hermione's temple down her smooth cheek, leaving tingles on their route; satisfied she wasn't about to banish half of Hermione's face she dispelled the charm with a flick of her wrist. "That looks sore." Narcissa drawled sarcastically. Despite herself, Hermione chuckled at the pureblood's dry sense of humour.

"Ouch. You're not allowed to make me laugh." Hermione said still smiling.

"Well, I'm sure this will make up for it." Narcissa replied opening the small jar she had gone to fetch. "Me and Sev invented this far too many moons ago." Narcissa scooped a small amount of the white cream on her index and middle-fingers and gently spread it were the nasty red and black bruises coloured Hermione's face. As her skin absorbed the cream, the bruises changed from black to blue, to green, to yellow until they faded away completely.

"How-?"

"There's only one reason you wouldn't have used a normal anti-bruising potion - your body is already overloaded with magic. Sev and I made this for all the bruises you get with the cruciatus, but it works just as well with any sort of magical excess." Narcissa replied closing the small jar.

"Thank you, Narcissa." Hermione said gently.

"It's no trouble." The pureblood replied with a small smile. "Anyway, I think we were talking about the essence of magic."

Hermione nodded enthusiastically, pulling out another book from her bag. "Yes we were."

**Thought I'd treat you all to a long chapter to celebrate having finished my mocks! (Let me be in denial that my real ones are basically in a month). Thank you truly for the reviews - they're getting me through these dark days of deadlines. I do consider all prompts given, so thanks for those. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter :) **


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The elegant barn owl opened its large tawny wings and took off high into the cloudy sky instantly becoming only a small brown and white spec on the grey horizon. Attached to its powerful legs the proud bird carried a newspaper and a magazine. The glossy magazine declared its title in a thin, long gold font - "_TATLER: A Wizarding World_" - and was headed straight to London. On the cover of said magazine, the profile of a high-cheek boned woman with an elusive archaic smile stood proudly, occasionally blinking, under the heading "the house of Black lives on". Her black hair was done up in a messy bun, parts of her blonde strands contrasting with the thick black hair that gracefully bunched up behind her head, whilst the remaining silvery strands fell casually on the contours of her face.

Since 1709 "_Tatler: A Wizarding World_" had documented all the rises and falls of the richest and most powerful and most beautiful among the magical world. Between its 9 pages reserved for the photographs of the best parties of the month, it was always a cut-throat strangle to be seen featured on those pages. Throughout the years, Narcissa Black had become a regular - a fact that would've made her mother proud, she would remind herself each month as she flicked through the pages. All the balls, charity events, parties, fashion and gossip were dissected in that publication. Druella Black herself had been a staple regular in her heydays, the magazine forever immortalising her beauty and philosophy of life - "_dress is a very foolish thing_," she once said in an interview, "_and yet it is a very foolish thing for a man not to be well dressed according to his rank and way of life._" The Black sisters had read their mother's words out proudly in the Slytherin common room while their classmates sat around them in quiet awe. "_The difference between a man of sense and a fop, is, that the fop values himself upon his dress; and the man of sense laughs at it, at the same that he knows he must not neglect it._"

Now it was Narcissa's face gracing the cover of the publication. The irony of the headline had not escaped her - 'the house of Black lives on', and there she was on the cover alone, the last of the noble and most ancient house of Black. It wasn't the first time she had seen her face plastered on the cover of the magazine; upon her marriage with Lucius there had been a special edition dedicated to the wedding which would unite the Malfoy and Black family. After that, every once in a scandal she would receive a copy and see her face smiling cooly back at her, but thankfully, her mother had prepared her for such nonsense. Druella had sat her down on her fifteenth birthday and explained how she should navigate such unforgiving attention.

"There are a thousand foolish customs of this kind, Narcissa, which although not criminal must be complied with cheerfully. Diogenes the Cynic was a wise man for despising them; but a fool for showing it." Druella had then taken her pretty daughter's face into her hands and continued. "Be wiser than other people, Narcissa. But do not let them know it."

Druella knew her daughters; Bellatrix had always been a lost cause from the start. Too impulsive, too unrestrained, too in love with freedom. Andromeda took too much like her father's side with that English crust of awkward bashfulness and roughness that no amount of etiquette classes would ever be able to rub off - the girl was simply not interested in that world. But in Narcissa Druella had been able to instil that good breeding that had been passed down from generations. Countless hours had been spent teaching the girl how to answer with complaisance when spoken to; to place herself at the lower end of the table unless bid to go higher; to drink first to the Lady of the house and next to the Master; to not to sit when others stand.

There had ever only been one doubt in Druella's mind when it came to Narcissa, a doubt she had done her best to stifle but which lingered still in the bottom of her bowls even long after her daughter had signed the marriage papers to Lucius. But, as long as the girl didn't act out on it, or at the very least gave Tatler no opportunity to plaster a photo of her enveloped in another woman, Druella knew Narcissa would have the world wrapped around her little finger.

Narcissa had been vaguely surprised when she had found out she would be featured in this month's edition. Welcoming Hermione into her calendar had meant her cutting back on public appearances - there were only so many hours in one day, and the muggleborn looked exhausted already, there was no way Narcissa was going to infringe on her sleep time.

One month working with Hermione. Tatler's party pages gave no hint of how the witches had been running around libraries up and down the country, having discreet meetings with academics and sharing their progress with each other every few days in Black Fortress. The fact that Narcissa couldn't draw a timeline of her companionship with Hermione from the publication, gave her a satisfaction she hadn't felt in ages and made her cherish those stolen moments of intellectual discussion with the witch even more for they were theirs and theirs only. Narcissa knew it was foolish to delight in good fortune supposing that it will never leave, but she had come to the conclusion that the friendship she had with the muggleborn was nobody's business and she deserved a bit of joy, however short lived.

Her mother had taught her that knowing people well requires the same attention and dedication as studying a books, and, even, more sagacity and discernment. As such, Narcissa had taken to studying Hermione alongside their research._ You must look into people_, Druella had instructed her, _as well as at them_. Her mother had warned her that all people are born with all the passions, to a certain degree; but almost every person has a prevailing one, to which the others are subordinate. Narcissa thus searched in Hermione for her ruling passion; prying into the recesses of her heart to observe the different workings. Druella had taught her that once the prevailing passion had been sussed out, to never, _ever _trust that person where that passion was concerned. Narcissa toyed with this when it came to Hermione, foolishly reticent to be on guard against her passion.

There was something absolutely gorgeous and tragic about the younger witch that Narcissa was having trouble knowing what to do with. Her mother's etiquette lessons had not covered this; yes, Druella had informed her that to be civil, and to be civil with ease, was the only way to be beloved and well received in company, but Hermione had a way of making civil seem frivolous.

Then there was that exhaustion the muggleborn seemed unable to sleep off. From the first time Narcissa had laid eyes on Hermione sitting in her library she had noticed a grief imbedded in the younger witch. Her grief was horribly discreet but as persistent and almost as silent as bleeding from an unstitched wound. Between the peachy smell that told Narcissa the younger witch was using her salve to heal bruises and the small winces she betrayed when anything pressed against her left forearm, Narcissa knew the muggleborn was keeping something deliberately private.

However, apart from that, the two witches had slipped into a comfortable intimacy they couldn't seem to recover from.

"So I've read I'm in the presence of the most desirable bachelorette in the country." Hermione said teasingly as she walked into the library.

Narcissa closed the book she was reading and looked up at the muggleborn with a devilish smile. "Better make a move quick then, Miss Granger, if Tatler's reported that it won't last long. I'll have suitors lining all the way to the beach."

"Oh no, Miss Black, it doesn't work that way." Hermione replied back grinning, laying on her mock serious voice thickly. "For you see, the Golden Girl has tied you for first place. I'll have a whole line of suitors myself to pick from."

Never one to back down from a challenge Narcissa quickly replied. "Oh really? Well, I don't know about you, but I have no interest in settling for second best. I think it's only appropriate for the two most desirable bachelorette's to go out for dinner. Give the tabloids a run for their money."

Hermione burst out laughing. "You know what? - that isn't even a bad idea. Dinner somewhere out sounds nice, I feel I haven't gone out in ages."

"That's because you _haven't_ gone out in ages." Narcissa commented cheekily. "I mean, I for one, am tired of stuffy libraries. Lets be civilised and go somewhere nice."

"Does this mean you're asking me out on a date, Miss Black?" Hermione asked, pivoting back to her faux sultry voice.

"Oh no, Miss Granger, it doesn't work that way." Narcissa retorted with the muggleborn's earlier remark. "It's going to take a bit more effort to get me to go on a date with you."

"Fine." Hermione replied, pretending to be hurt. "Where are we going tomorrow for our non-date?"

"Don't worry - I know somewhere nice." Narcissa said cryptically, her eyes twinkling as she passed Hermione a stack of parchments. "I added Fleur's calculations to our main canon, can you double-check my workings?"

Hermione took the parchments with an easy smile, "with pleasure. Can you take a look at what I've found about separating black magic from human matter?"

"With pleasure." Narcissa mimicked with good humour.

**School is hurting my soul. Hope you've enjoyed though r&amp;r! :)  
Tatler is a real British magazine, btw. It's documented the lives of the upper class for so long it's ingrained in the culture and I've always imagined it had a wizarding counterpart. **


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold. Two young witches sat comfortably in the bright warm kitchen of 12 Grimmauld Place, the sun pouring in the room through the windows that had been drawn closed for so many years. The grey stone floor retained its dusty quality despite the re-polishing the rest of the room had undergone - the wooden drawers that lined the walls and displayed the china no longer sagged sadly, marred with scruffy scratches; and the walls whose red paint had been slowly peeling off, revealing the white masonry underneath, now sported a new coat of rich red paint.

The witches sat on the far end of the narrow table, next to the unlit fireplace. After half an hour of them working, the organised fortress of books and papers had exploded into a disarray all across half of the table. Fleur had dropped by after having breakfast at the Burrow - she had the day off and Bill was working, and seeing what Hermione was up to with her research was always a pleasant way to spend a lazy afternoon. Or, at least that had been what she had told the muggleborn when she had shown up out of the blue.

In truth, Harry had made a comment in passing during breakfast that had peaked Fleur's curiosity. Not quite knowing how to bring it up, Fleur had taken to observing Hermione as she caught up with the work. The younger witch had an air of nervous gravity, as though she was waiting for something major to happen, further fuelling the french witch's suspicions.

Fleur dismissed the thoughts from her mind and looked back down at the papers in front of her. It was undeniable that Hermione's notes were a real pleasure to read. The smooth handwriting and carefully explained theories invited Fleur to rid herself of all the opinions she had adopted up to then, and to begin afresh from the foundations; for Hermione herself had certainly applied herself seriously and freely to the general destruction of all _her_ former ideas.

The french witch turned the page and raised an eyebrow - Hermione wanted to introduce the muggle concept of causal closure into the magical debate. Fleur closed her eyes, concentrating in order to remember her Year 6 Theory of Magic syllabus. Causal closure said something along the lines that every physical event has a sufficient physical cause to bring it about. Fleur mentally shrugged her shoulders, Hermione was probably right - just because magic was magic, did not mean that some physical events had no complete physical explanation.

Fleur looked up at the witch in question and saw her staring anxiously at the clock as if unsure of whether she wanted it to move faster or slower. The french witch smiled discreetly to herself, becoming more and more certain that her suspicions were right. As Fleur watched Hermione shake her head reproachfully and turn back down nervously to her equations, she pondered on the muggleborn's anxiety. Maybe it came from the realisation that she _had_ _to_ choose between acting on her feelings or not acting on them - a terrifying thought in and of itself. The younger witch's mind was probably reeling from the thought of her absolute freedom. Fleur smiled at herself again as she remembered the same sort of nervousness when she had first met Bill - anxiety is the dizziness of freedom.

Fleur kept reading the parchment. The notes started asking more questions than positing theories. _How do you diagnose how far black magic has corrupted the host? _Fleur perked up at this - this was something she could help with. Hermione sighed and rubbed her eyes exasperatedly. The french witch nodded mentally to herself - that was her cue.

"Rumour has it zat you are going on a date tonight." Fleur said, trying but failing to sound casual as she pretended to carry on reading Hermione's notes. The younger witch blushed tomato red and stood up quickly from her chair.

"It's not a date." She spluttered out.

"You are acting like it is a date." Fleur teased as she watched Hermione nervously tidy the table.

"That's impossible - it's Narcissa, so it can't be a date. I mean, c'mon! - we're just going somewhere nice for a change." Hermione quickly replied.

"Narcissa?" Fleur said as surprise made her eyes twinkle with excitement. "On first name basis already? And zomwhere nice? Zat is definitely a date."

"Fleur!" Hermione exclaimed.

"'Ermionee!"

"It's not a date!"

"Okay! It is not a date zen!" Fleur said huffing dramatically. "I am just zaying, if a beautiful, intelligent witch was taking me zomewhere nice, it would definitely count as a date."

"Fleur! She is old enough to be my mother!" Hermione whispered furiously as she quickly glanced out the kitchen door to make sure nobody was listening.

"Zat has never stopped me." Fleur replied nonchalantly. "In fact - zey make for better lovers! I remember zis wizard I went out with ze summer before I met Bill, _oh là là_! What that man could do with his hands!_" _

"Okay, I'm going to pretend I did not just hear that."

Fleur laughed heartily. "Forgive me, Ermionee, I forget how prudish ze Eenglish are."

"I am not prudish!" Hermione snapped.

"Okay, zen just admit you 'ave a crush on Narcissa." Fleur challenged.

"I shan't! Because I don't!" Hermione retorted. "Look - I can recognise that Narcissa is kind and generous and beautiful, and so _so _smart and really funny in that dark, sarcastic way of hers and she's really considerate and gentle. Yes she's a little on the snobby side, but it's almost kind of sweet how much she cares about the little details other people would usually forget. I mean, she's proud and she's struggling with herself and that makes her selflessness all the more extraordinary. Like, she doesn't have to help me - but she is, and I learn so much from her, and I genuinely look forward to seeing her. But none of that means I have a crush on her."

Fleur stared at her friend incredulously. "Do you seriously expect me to believe zat you are not in love with Narcissa Black after zat?"

"Merlin's soggy pants, Fleur!" Hermione exclaimed. "When did we go from a crush to love?!"

Fleur leaned back into her chair with a cheshire cat grin. "So you do admit you have a crush on her?"

"I did no such thing!"

"Okay, okay. Maybe I am wrong." Fleur said not sounding like she believed a single word she was saying. "What are you going to wear for zis... reunion."

"Err... I hadn't thought that far." Hermione confessed.

"Well we should make 'ou beautiful, no?" Fleur declared. "You are going somewhere nice in a few hours so 'ou should be getting ready."

"But you came all the way here to help me -"

"Exactly, Ermione!" Fleur said happily. "I can walk you through diagnosing how far dark magic has spread in ze blood while I do your 'air -_ croyez-moi, vouz avez besoin de plus d'aide avec vos cheveux qu'avec vos livres._"

"Hey!"

* * *

Narcissa threw herself gracefully on her leather chaise lounge, languidly applying her red lipstick as a mirror floated passively above her. She felt foolish as she did her makeup for there was no reason for feeling like she was standing on top of a cliff looking over the edge. She was just in her room, getting ready for dinner with a colleague; and yet, two types of fear rushed up and down her spine: the fear of falling, and the fear brought on by the impulse to throw herself off the edge.

The tall grandfather clock in the corner chimed, announcing it was time for her to leave.

With one last resolving glance at the mirror, she straightened her dress, put her gloves on and apparated into London.

Narcissa had never been a big fan of this part of the city. The tall victorian brick houses had an old, grimy feel to them modernity seemed unable to scrub off. At last she rounded to number 12, and with practiced grace, walked up the stairs and rang the door bell.

Immediately, Hermione opened the door, unbolting with her in one fell swoop all the freshness that the grubby street had needed.

As Hermione stood there smiling contently at the older witch on her doorstep, she couldn't help but think that even though nobody would ever describe her as elegant, the woman in front of her was every inch a lady. And as her eyes trailed up and down the hypnotic curves and valleys marked out by Narcissa's layers of velvet, she realised how she had never before considered how powerful that could be.

"Good evening, Miss Granger. Are you ready?" Narcissa asked, reverting into old formalities to break the trance they had fallen into.

"Yes, sorry, where are my manners? How are you? You must be a bit chilly." Hermione spluttered closing the door behind her as the witches walked back down on to the street.

"You needn't worry, Hermione." Narcissa said with a gentle smile. "Are you okay to apparate? - it's a short distance, I promise."

"Yes, of course." Hermione replied, taking the soft hand Narcissa offered her into her own as she gazed curiously into Narcissa's sky blue eyes. "I finally get to find out where you're taking me." She said with a teasing smile.

"You'll probably laugh when you see it." The pureblood said with an equally mischievous smile of her own and with a small pop they apparated to an empty park. Wordlessly, Narcissa guided Hermione out of the green enclosure and after a few steps Hermione couldn't help but laugh, squeezing gently on the older witch's hand.

"Smack bang in the middle of muggle London, I see, Miss Black?" Hermione teased. "Keen to keep out of the papers?"

"What can I say? I value my privacy." Narcissa replied, reluctantly releasing Hermione's hand as they reached the door.

A tailor dressed waiter took one look at the pureblood as he opened the door for them, made a short bow and bid them to follow him through the brightly lit building. Carpeted with long, heavily decorated red and gold rugs, and plush mirrors on either side of the large corridors that reflected all the golden features, opulence seemed to be a theme. Heavy curtains hanged at every opportunity, as did inviting chairs in which well dressed men and women sat chatting amicably amongst each other. Hermione was sure she had never seen so many chandeliers in one building. At last the group reached the restaurant wing and the waiter took them to their table by the window, overlooking Green Park. The restaurant was busy, filled with people who were aware of their importance.

The waiter handed them their menu's as Hermione looked at the ceiling mural of a bright blue cloudy sky. Much to her amusement, the mural stayed still reaffirming the muggleness of the establishment they found themselves in.

"You looked surprised." Narcissa said, a smile tugging at her lips.

"I just never thought I'd be eating in the Ritz; let alone with the infamous, but magnificent, company of Narcissa Black." Hermione replied with a small chuckle. "Let me just say from the start - this is most definitely a pleasant surprise."

"Would you be even more surprised if I told you I was a regular?" The pureblood asked as the waiter came back with a bottle of champagne.

"It would explain why you haven't needed to say anything to this chap." Hermione replied as she thanked the waiter. "But overall, yes -" she said with a huge smile, "definitely more surprised. It's very... muggle."

"What can I say? - the lobster salad here is to die for." Narcissa said conspiratorially, taking a sip of her bubbly wine.

Hermione, leaned back into her chair, comfortably soaking in the vibrant buzz that hummed in the room as she opened her menu. Her eyes ran down the menu, slightly confused that there didn't seem to be any prices next to her dining options, but before she could comment, Narcissa spoke softly. "I have been thinking, Hermione, that it takes time to be happy. A lot of time, actually. And that happiness, too, is a long patience." Narcissa took another sip of her drink and stared into the hazel orbs that bore into her inquisitively. "Just look around us - all these busy, important people more interested in whatever business they are trying to conduct than with the exquisite plate of food in front of them or their company... they are using their lives to make money, when they should be using their money to gain life."

Hermione grinned at the pureblood. "That's the best defence for eating caviar I have ever heard."

"Oh, I haven't even started on the caviar, Miss Granger." Narcissa teased back. "You should've met my mother - that woman could give a monologue on hors-d'oeuvre's." The pureblood closed her menu and stared at Hermione inquisitively. "What got the golden girl into theoretical magic?"

"You don't get explanations in real life." Hermione replied, trying the champagne. "You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd. Some things are better in the abstract."

"Yes," Narcissa agreed with a dignified huff. "What a terrible mistake it is to let go of something wonderful for something real."

Before Hermione could answer, the waiter politely came up to there table, demanding their attention. "Are you ladies ready to order?"

**Hope everything is going well with you guys. Thanks for reading! R&amp;R**

***_croyez-moi, vouz avez besoin de plus d'aide avec vos cheveux qu'avec vos livres. = believe me, you need more help with your hair than your books._**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Hermione's eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy as her lips closed around her silver spoon. The banana and rum ice cream melted in her mouth and she briefly considered the practicality of coming to the Ritz for dessert every day. Maybe also dinner. Definitely also dinner. Hermione then remembered where she was and with a light blush quickly opened her eyes and looked sheepishly at Narcissa. The pureblood seemed incredibly satisfied with herself; her red lips sported a small, amused smile as she deftly lifted a spoonful of tiramisu into her mouth. Hermione looked back down at her soufflé trying not to look long at Narcissa as if the pureblood were the sun, yet Hermione saw her, like the sun, even without looking.

The muggleborn had another mouthful of her dessert and had to actively resist sighing contently as the sweet soufflé reawakened her taste buds.

"I've been meaning to tell you," Narcissa began. "Ever since we began our acquaintance, I've been catching up with all the work you've published."

Hermione blushed dark crimson red and quickly sipped down what remained of her pink dessert wine before answering. "Re-really?"

"Don't look so terrified." Narcissa said with just the right amount of sarcasm and warmth to make Hermione laugh. "I just wanted to tell you how impressed I am with the sheer amount of work you've been able to do in just a few years."

Hermione sighed pensively. "I guess what horrifies me most is the idea of being useless: well-educated, brilliantly promising, but falling out into an indifferent middle age. Combine that with a curiosity that gets me into trouble more often than not, and it's meant I've tried to eat the whole world in one go."

"Don't you get tired?" The pureblood asked, her head cocked slightly to her right shoulder.

"No. Yes. No. Kinda. Yes. Definitely." Hermione smiled as she shook her head, slightly regretting the amount of wine she'd had over the course of the evening. "I get restless if I don't have a puzzle to solve. I need to tire myself out. Plus, there's just so much to learn and so little time to learn it all." The muggleborn paused for a second as she decided whether or not to share the next thing that was on her mind. "My mother... my mother once told me that a love affair with knowledge never ends in heart break."

Narcissa smiled sadly. "See, _my_ mother told me that in much wisdom is much grief." The pureblood said softly taking another spoonful of her sinfully rich dessert. "And I too have found that any increase in knowledge will ultimately result in an increase in sorrow."

"But surely you _must_ agree with Socrates that regardless of the sorrow, an unexamined life is not worth living?" Hermione asked, staring imploringly into Narcissa's shockingly blue eyes.

"My dear Hermione," Narcissa said with no hint of irony, "_you_ must accept that however seriously we take life, deep down we've always known that this seriousness is absurd."

"Then what of love? Is that too dismissed as meaningless in your world?" Hermione countered.

"Absolutely." Narcissa replied. "That, however, does not diminish it's value." The older witch leaned back into her chair, nursing a sip of port as she observed the woman in front of her - all passion and bravery fit for a hot summer's day. "Love will be loved all the better if it has no meaning. It's expectations and demands and hopes and definitions that stifle it. Let love be love - it's nothing more."

Hermione stared deep into Narcissa's deep pools of blue for a moment that seemed to stretch into a lifetime; a lifetime in which both women silently acknowledged all the impossible 'could be's they could recklessly run away into; and wordlessly, they lived that lifetime of 'perhaps' like a book's pages being flicked forward; for in that moment, Hermione understood that the only way of loving a person was to love them without hope.

But it was just a moment. Like all lifetimes, this one had no claim to eternity.

"Tea or coffee?" The waiter asked.

"Tea for me - Hermione?" Narcissa offered politely.

"Tea for me too, thank you."

Hermione rubbed her eyes trying to make sense of what had just happened between her and Narcissa, but that was the problem with feelings - they are rarely understood in the moment and they are quickly forgotten and almost always misremembered.

As Narcissa watched the waiter pour the rich dark brown liquid into a delicate china cup, she briefly considered the ludicrous idea of what Lucius would've made of all this. He would've disapproved of her choice of restaurant, for a start, and Narcissa couldn't help but feel smug about that. As for her company of choice - well, she would've never heard the end of it. She could already hear his silky voice hissing 'blood-traitor' at her. But she had loved him at one point, Narcissa reminded herself as she poured a droplet of milk into her tea and stir in a lump of sugar, she _had_ loved him.

"Penny for your thoughts." Hermione offered warmly.

"I'm being silly." Narcissa replied, but then reconsidered. "I'm just thinking about my dear departed husband."

"Oh?"

"Duty can compel people to do unimaginable things." The pureblood said cryptically. "We were terribly in love once, can you believe it? - before the wars." She said fondly. After each lost crusade there had been hope in both Malfoy's that by returning home they would be able to begin the process of taming the wickedness and frenzy in their hearts by means of devotion to each other; but each time the peace had just been stolen time before the world was swept back into madness with wickedness and frenzy being the currency of most value. "But love gets harder," Narcissa continued solemnly. "Which is not the same as to say that it gets harder to love. Lucius was just hard to love well. His standards were high and he wouldn't settle for the quick way out, which is why we spent so many years wasting away bitterly together, hating each other but stuck together."

"Why did _you_ stay, though?" The muggleborn asked gently.

"I guess habit silenced me the way habit does." Narcissa replied quietly. "You get so used to a person or a thing there's no need to speak of it, however horrible; so well known your roles that there's no need to redefine them."

"You know, you both managed to fool the world." Hermione said as she sipped her tea. "We all thought you were so in love. I guess it was the way you always stood by him."

"It was my duty to."

"Because duty can compel people to do unimaginable things." Hermione repeated softly more to herself than to Narcissa.

"There are three types of lovers, Miss Granger. Those who shout: 'Love me!' Those who beg: 'Don't love me!' And then there is a third, comprised of only the worst and most miserable, who say: 'Don't love me, but be faithful.' I am sure it is no feat for your intellect to deduce which group my marriage belonged to."

"And yet, you still have some fondness left for him." Hermione said without judgement. Narcissa's heart fluttered slightly with panic, unused to being read so easily - her occlumency must be getting rusty. But then the older witch looked directly into Hermione's hazel eyes and saw no intrusiveness from them and decided to trust her.

"That's because there's no lover who does not love forever."

The muggleborn broke into a huge smile and lifted her teacup, "I will toast to that, 'Cissa - to lovers who love forever."

Narcissa smiled back at the younger witch, joyfully lifting her own teacup. "To lovers who love forever. And do call me Cissy - I think we're far past all those formalities."

"Thank you."

"More tea?" The waiter asked with a pot of tea in hand.

"I'm okay, thanks." Hermione replied, placing her empty tea cup on the saucer.

"Me too." Narcissa said with a content sigh. "Just put it all on the tab, won't you, Jeremy?"

"Yes, Miss Black." The waiter said with a small bow.

"Cissy! I can't let you do that!" Hermione objected.

"You can and you will." Narcissa said with a casual, dismissive flick of the wrist. "It was my invitation. That will be all, Jeremy."

"But -"

"No 'buts' Hermione. It's my pleasure." The pureblood insisted, despite the younger witches pout.

"Next time it's my treat then." Hermione said with a determined nod.

"So there's going to be a next time?" Narcissa asked innocently with a devilish smile.

"If you ask nicely." Hermione teased back as both witches stood up. "Thank you, Cissy. This evening has been... truly wonderful."

"The pleasure is all mine." Narcissa said sincerely as she helped the muggleborn into her coat and they started making their way out of the restaurant.

"Don't you think it's funny how everything has ended up?" Hermione asked ponderously, the London evening air rushing through her hair and sobering her thoughts.

"Oh yes - my mother is probably rolling in her grave as we speak." Narcissa said with an amused laugh, looking down at her jade green heels that clicked on the grey pavement until they entered the empty park that was illuminated by scattered lamp posts.

"I suppose this is goodbye." Hermione said, trying to sound casual as sparks of potential crackled in the air, making her palms sweat and a terrible impulse pull in her chest.

"Yes, I suppose it is." Narcissa replied quietly, her blue eyes still vivid in the dark. Hermione noticed how the humming yellow light of the lamp posts made Narcissa seem like she was glowing. Her black hair was pulled back into a complicated bun, but her two white strands casually framed her face highlighting her sharp jaw line. She was a sight for sore eyes and as Hermione's eyes trailed from her thin neck, to her berry lips that were drawn into a challenging smile, she had to tear her eyes away from the temptation, back up to Narcissa's lively eyes.

"See you on Sunday, Miss Black?" Hermione asked, the simple question carrying more weight in the absolute solitude of the empty park.

"Yes - six o'clock." Narcissa replied, sealing the vow and hammering the final nail in making their scenario seem dreamlike.

Hermione didn't know what to do. Their goodbyes seemed incomplete, so she stretched her hand out for the pureblood to shake.

"Goodnight, Cissy."

"Goodnight, Hermione."

Both witches let go.

**In celebration of May Bank Holiday and the birth of the princess (I will take bets on names - I'm calling 'Victoria', just saying) thought I'd treat you with an early update ;) R&amp;R!**


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Narcissa's pale hand ran down the grand vanity table that stood forgotten in her parent's old master bedroom. Her reflection in the oval mirror was disconcerting - the last time she had seen herself reflected in that polished ornament, she had been a young woman; no tired eyes, no dark circles under them that required real dedication to hide, no lines across her temple that spoke of years of worrying; no lots of things she wasn't inclined to compare.

She hesitated before picking up her mother's perfume and spraying some into the empty air. Like a homecoming the rich scent welcomed her back into an old life, inviting her to close her eyes and believe that when she opened them her mother would be sitting on the vanity imparting some wisdom as she did her makeup. She kept them closed, almost able to hear her mother reminding her that a lady is known by her shoes and her gloves.

The fortress was intent on driving her mad, she thought indignantly once she opened her eyes and surveyed the lifeless room. Like Hogwarts, the Black Fortress's stairway system had a life of its own. The many doors in the ballroom entrance gave the inhabitants the illusion of choice, when in fact the fortress itself decided what room they really needed to go in. Originally intended to ensure visitors would never get lost on their way to the toilets, the fortress had sometimes taken the role of protecting the residents from themselves.

With resignation Narcissa sat in front of the vanity, placing the bottle of burgundy liquid back in its place next to the row of lipsticks. Twenty three years since she had sat in this room. Twenty three years since her mother had died and the fortress had decided to seal the room. They had ended on icy terms, but Narcissa now understood her mother's cruel sorrow from having lost a daughter to social confines - there were some loses that just did not dull with time.

Druella had never been the same after that wicked night in October when Andromeda had had a vision of courage and so packed her stuff and left into the night.

As Narcissa studied her aged reflection in the mirror, she finally understood that it had been the grief that had ruined her mother, far more than the societal disgrace.

Druella had been sitting on the chair Narcissa now sat when she had officially announced to her daughter her betrothal to Lucius a few years after the... incident with Andromeda.

"_Now, you will finish your N.E.W.T.'s and by August you'll have married Lucius Malfoy._" Druella had said dryly as she carefully moved her wand around her head, sculpting an elaborate hairstyle.

Narcissa had felt her heart drop to her stomach like a glacier violently falling into the sea. She had always known this would be her inevitable end but that didn't make finally facing her betrothal any easier.

"_I suggest you start wiping that sour look from your face - after what your blood traitor for a sister did, you should be thankful that that Malfoy boy still wants you._" Druella had scolded coldly, her expression becoming increasingly darker.

"_No_." Narcissa had whispered.

"_I beg your pardon?_" Druella hissed back, immediately swinging round from her vanity table.

"_No_." Narcissa had repeated, quickly brushing off an angry tear that had fallen down her cheek. She had well known that what she was doing was foolish and futile but any less felt like too easy a surrender. "_You go and marry Lucius. I don't want to share his bed._"

"_Want_?" Druella had repeated incredulously as she stood up and slowly made her way to where Narcissa had been standing by the bed. "_Since when has 'want' have anything to do with this_?" She continued pitilessly.

"_Please Mama..._" Narcissa begged in a low whimper.

"_Stop. Crying._" Druella ordered, her heart clenching into iron. "_A lady of your upbringing should know better than to cry; or are you another failure for a daughter?_"

Narcissa had quickly shaken her head as she bit her lower lip, willing her eyes to stop weeping, but tried as she might, the fat tears had kept pouring down her pretty face as her body was convulsed with silent sobs. Druella had roughly grabbed her daughter's chin in her hand and slowly snarled, "_do not provoke me any further, Narcissa Black, or I may lose my temper. And believe me when I say that I can hate you as much as I have loved you so far._" Druella let go of her daughter. "_Now get out of my sight. I expect you looking your best for when the Malfoy's arrive in an hour._"

Narcissa shook her head, gazing back in the mirror to find in her older features evidence that she had long since grown-up and she was her own woman now. With an eye roll, she remembered how that particular dinner party still stood as the most awkward in her life.

Everyone had shown up dressed to the nines, stiffly uncomfortable and thinking of a hundred other things they could be doing with their evening.

Her father had sat at the head of the table, nervously gulping down wine with Lucius at his left and Abraxas at his right. Next to her soon to be husband had been Rodolphus; and between herself and her brother-in-law was Bella, discreetly pulling at the diamond choker on her neck that was living up to its name. In front of them the two matriarchs had sat together, both sending each other haughty looks and trying to one-up the other. Narcissa hadn't understood what they were trying to accomplish - her mother had always said that society was the intercourse of persons on a footing of equality, real or apparent. As Druella sent a politely worded insult to Hecuba Malfoy's way concerning the allegations of her cousin's affair with a muggle, Narcissa had tried to understand why they were acting like either was superior to the other.

"_Will you be attending the World Cup?_" Her father had asked Hecuba in an attempt to break the animosity that was seething from the two witches.

"_I would never participate in what I consider to be the death of art and civilisation._" Hecuba bit back. The whole table had turned to look at Druella; the pureblood had taken a calmly measured spoonful of her soup, somehow managing to convey contempt without moving a muscle beyond her dainty eating.

Narcissa had taken a sip of her own soup, reflecting on how her mother was going contrary to all that which she had taught her. Good breeding was not supposed to consist in who could win the tacky blood-purity competition; but in an easy, civil and respectful behaviour. The sour mood on the table had been disheartening from the first course.

"Style, like silk, all too often conceals eczema." Narcissa said out loud as she stood up from the chair and moved to the bed, flopping backwards into the large expanse of heavily decorated sheets.

Her mother was dead. Her father was dead. Her sister was dead. Her husband was dead. Her cousins were dead. Her brothers-in-law were dead. Her niece was dead. Her friends were dead. Death used to mean something - a statement instead of a list. Now all graves were shallow. This late age of world's experience had bred in them all, all witches and wizards, a well of tears. Tears and sorrows; courage and endurance; all in a perfectly upright and stoical bearing. And yet, as Narcissa emptily looked up at the dark wooden beams she wondered why, if death was so peaceful and painless, did all living things prefer life to death?

She remembered Lucius clinging on senselessly onto his last few months of life like a stubborn child who refused to let go of his toy. The cruel magic imbued in the dark mark on his left forearm spread all over his body poisoning its host as it was designed to do upon the death of the Dark Lord. Dark magic always killed its victim in the end, whether in one sharp blow or a slow trickle that corroded on the soul for decades until there was nothing left. It had been worse at night, when her husband woke up feeling a phantom pain of the cruciatus twisting and tearing his body. During the day the poor man could barely breath, his lungs choking on themselves as visions and voices teased with him relentlessly.

He used to say it started with goosebumps spreading through the length of his arm like a mocking warning; the anticipation of the pain almost as painful as the pain itself. Narcissa remembered watching him unable to do anything to give him a respite from his torture. Such a proud man had been reduced to a whimpering mess - the fear had been all over him, like a dead cold air falling down from the sky, suffocating him, clutching his lungs.

That damned mark.

And the irony of it all was that she had helped create it. It had been the summer before her sixth year - the Dark Lord had been Bella's guest at Black Fortress. It had been a time when Narcissa was still furious at her family for discarding Andromeda. That handsome man had swooped down on her, immediately recognising her talent and her pain the moment they had shaken hands.

During that almost dreamlike time before the wars when anything was possible, some corners of the universe bred the most terrible things. Things which acted against everything any sane person believed in. Amongst those corners was Black Fortress. Surrounded by the sea and the sky it was easy to forget the real world in which consequences existed. She had been a pampered teenager, incapable of grasping the effects of her actions. It had been like watching an object fall into a black hole, for no matter how long you watched, you would never see the object enter despite it already being sucked in.

He had asked her to help him create a branding mark for his followers. A mark that would ensure their loyalty. A mark that would ensure he owned them. Narcissa had argued that such a creation would destroy an essential part of whoever underwent it, for it meant renouncing freedom, and renouncing one's freedom was to renounce one's humanity. But he had persisted, charming her the way only he knew how. For after all, what was charm but the ability of obtaining the answer 'yes' without having asked a clear question?

And so young Narcissa had poured herself into dabbling into the theory of that dark magic, producing for the Dark Lord a plethora of ways for branding someone.

Narcissa had then gone back to Hogwarts, quickly forgetting her bizarre summer amidst the ordinary chatter of school life. That was, until the Christmas holidays when after tightly embracing her older sister at Platform 9 3/4's, her Bella had lifted her sleeve and shown her that black skull and snake tattoo marring her snow white skin. Petrified in the middle of the busy platform, Narcissa stared at it with silent horror as her sister proudly told her all about the ritual. She knew there was no possible quid pro quo for someone who renounced everything.

That winter had been spent in a constant state of shock with each beloved family and friend she had ever held dear to her heart, proudly showing her their mark. With frantic desperation each night she poured back over all her papers, calculating with masochistic precision all the effects that would slowly manifest with time and fruitlessly trying to invent a remedy despite knowing there was no solution for someone who had voluntarily offered everything. What right can a slave have against his master?

"_Don't worry, Cissy. I'll restore the Black name back to its rightful glory after what that blood traitor did to us_." Bella would reassure her at night when Narcissa slipped into her sister's room. Narcissa would trace a finger over the tattoo, imagining she could erase it with her finger. "_This is just the first step, Cissy. The Dark Lord has great, great plans for us. It will be a new world order._"

Narcissa never said anything. What could she do except watch the train wreck she had designed grotesquely unfold? Every so often, the Dark Lord would come back to her, demanding more research from her, exploiting her guilt. When she asked, what have I done? She really meant, what am I doing?

For twenty six years Narcissa had carried around that guilt with her like cold, soaking wet clothes that clung on her skin. She had sworn she had been about to have a nervous breakdown when she watched the Dark Lord carve out her son's arm; his muffled screams mingling with the smell of burnt flesh. The only thing that kept her from stupidly trying to draw wand against the Dark Lord was the knowledge that there was a fundamental difference between her son's mark and that of everyone else who had it. Her son didn't want it, whereas all the other death eaters in the room had gladly given up their soul for it.

Narcissa knew she could fight back dark magic that had been imposed on the host, unlike if the magic had been welcomed in. She didn't sleep for a week after the ritual on Draco, desperately creating a potion that would keep the darkness at bay. But her husband... her husband had been a lost cause from the start. So had her sister. So had every one else. The mark made them all dependent on the Dark Lord's lifeline. If he lived, so did they. Death eaters indeed.

"_He is dead._" She remembered calling out, knowing that she was condemning those she loved to death. _He is dead._ _He is dead. He is dead._ Those three words echoing forever in her head, even when they stopped sounding like words. _He is dead. He is dead..._

Why had the fortress decided to open this room up to her? She wondered tiredly, propping herself up.

"Limpy." She called out softly.

"Yes, mistress?" He asked shyly.

"Why...?"

The little house elf stroked his downcast ears and refused to look his mistress in the eye. "The fortress and Limpy decided that..."

"Decided what Limpy?" Narcissa asked sitting up properly.

"Decided to show mistress that mistress has been brave in the past, and that mistress deserves better now." Limpy said in one hurried sentence as he hunched himself into a little ball expecting to be reprimanded. Old habits died hard.

"Oh Limpy..." Narcissa said softly. The house elf opened one eye nervously and slowly untied himself from the knot he got into. "If only that were true." The pureblood stood up. "C'mon, Limpy. Lets get out of here. We need to start on Master Draco's potion before Miss Granger arrives."

"Yes, Mistress."

**Until next time, dear reader. Until next time. R&amp;R!**


	12. Chapter 12

_Dee-deep breaths, Hermione. Deep, deep breaths._

Crookshanks. Check.

The bookshelf. Check.

_C'mon, Granger - you need to breathe. Have another breath._

The window. Check. - _Wait. Is it locked?_ Yes. Check.

Now the closet. Yes, everything's there. Check.

Cauldron... check.

_That's it, Granger. Nice, deep breaths. _

The manuscripts - _are they where I left them last night?_ Yes, yes. Ok. Check.

_Jus- just a few more things now. No, no! - ... why the crying now? Please don't cry, you can hardly breathe as it is._

Th-th-the pictures of Harry, Ron and her laughing with their arms around each other out on one of the quad's in Hogwarts hanging above her desk. Check.

_Please... stop crying._

Hermione buried her head in her hands and sobbed as Crookshanks rubbed himself against his mistress' thigh consolingly. The voice in her head was replaced by the sound of a terrible animal that she had never heard before. It screamed like a basilisk and roared like a dragon all at once. Hermione began to tremble, knowing she was the only one who could hear it; or perhaps she was just shivering from how icy cold she felt, she couldn't tell which. Despite the intense cold, drops of sweat burst from her skin all across her forehead, chest and belly. The animal in her head was chanting "MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD!" over and over again in its terrible screeches until Hermione forced herself to open her eyes and face her empty room. Their volume faltered.

Her notebooks all ordered neatly on her desk. Check.

_That's it! Keep going! Keep going! - just ignore it and keep going!_

The pale orange wallpaper with flowers blooming and dancing in an imaginary wind. Check.

The cherry wooden planks all lined up in their horizontal rows. Check.

Her well used Converse waiting for her on the rug. Check.

_Almost done, Granger._

Her large chest open and revealing an odd assortment of magical equipment. Check.

That sickly cheerful poster of the Holyhead Harpies. Check.

The sun at last poured through the open window and Hermione flopped backwards on the bed, the half-kneazle hopping onto her chest and licking her chin.

"It's okay, Crookshanks. I'm back now. I'm back now." She reassured the feline gently, stroking him with one hand and wiping the vestiges of her tears with the other. The furry creature on her chest purred happily at the reassures and Hermione lifted her left arm above her face to see how bad it looked today.

Ouch.

The seven letters all glowed pungently, the veins around them all popping up against her skin in varying tones of black. Had she been unable to move her arm she would've been positive that that half of her limb was necrotic. She touched it as lightly as possible but flinched automatically when her right hand came into contact with the swollen skin and the carvings sent out a wave of electric shocks down her arm in retaliation.

"Merlin's beard." Hermione coughed out through clenched tears. "Why haven't I learnt to stop doing that?"

Crookshanks jumped onto the floor and scratched on the closed door. "You're right, Crookshanks - breakfast is in order." She said wearily as she stuffed her wand into the elastic band of her pyjamas and quickly put a jumper on to cover her arm. "It's going to be a long day."

Hermione walked into the kitchen and saw Harry already sitting on the table pouring himself a cup of tea, the salivating selection of food all set out.

"Have we ever_ really_ offered him clothes?" Hermione asked in lieu of a greeting.

"Many, _many_ a time." Harry replied quietly with a soft smile.

Hermione sat down in front of her friend, the young man passing her that morning's copy of the Prophet; both of them noting the dark circles under the others eyes, and silently acknowledged the difficult night with a small tired smile.

"You're going to see your... friend-? today, right?" Harry asked as he served himself a healthy portion of sausages.

"Yes, around lunch time, actually." Hermione replied absently, flicking the newspaper to page three to see if Narcissa had made the headlines.

"I remember when you used to scoff at anyone who read that trash." Harry teased lightly as he passed Hermione the marmalade.

"It's for educational purposes!" The younger witch replied indignantly.

"Oh yes," Harry kept teasing. "I'm sure the page 3 gossip column has quite the didactic insight." Hermione blushed as her friend gave her a cheeky smile and her eyes caught sight of the words '_Miss Narcissa Black..._'

"Oh hush, Harry. I'm trying to read." Hermione replied curtly, trying to look casual as her friend barked a laugh at her embarrassed expression.

The handsome widower Mr Charles McLaggen was reported to have spent all of the previous evening dancing with the beautiful widow Miss Narcissa during the Annual Muggle Reparations Banquet Fundraiser. Hermione impatiently closed the newspaper after the nefarious reporter started dissecting all the ensuing rumours about a possible romance between the two in all their salacious glory.

"You're right, Harry. I don't know how anyone can read that trash." She said with a little too much vehemence as she stabbed a sausage with her fork.

* * *

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh salty sea air. She had just apparated onto the sandy beach that served as a welcome mat to Black Fortress. It had turned out to be a grey day and the sea seemed almost inky black, making the pristinely white marble fortress truly stand out against its drab surroundings like an ephemeral vision.

The sound of the heavy waves crashing onto the shore lulled Hermione into a safe feeling of content as she walked on the stone pier towards the black door she had become so fond of. Two quick knocks and the door opened itself to her and she walked quietly into the gilded ball room. So used to the house being empty, it took her a few moments to register the pale young man in a black tailored suit that stood silently, looking out of one of the windows that faced the blue and grey horizon. His arms were drawn behind his back and he didn't seem to have noticed the intrusion.

Hermione hesitated uncomfortably, unsure whether to say something or try to slip away into the library unnoticed. The blonde boy made the decision for her, turning around with a look of astonishment as he caught sight of her.

"Granger." He offered at last, his face quickly hiding any trace of surprise

"Malfoy." Hermione replied in the same neutral tone.

"Mother mentioned she was working on something with someone." He stated politely. "I suppose she forgot to mention it was you." Hermione almost raised an eyebrow - this was by far the most civil thing Draco had ever said to her.

She nodded, but then became hyperaware that she was at a total loss as to what to say next. Instead, Hermione took to observing the sullen young man who stood in front of her - after all, she had as much a right as him to be there. She had never noticed it before, but he looked so much like his mother. It was the cheekbones. And the nose. The rest, she supposed, was all his father - from the hard jawline, the cold grey eyes, all the way to the tired way he held himself. Despite the favouring suit Draco sported, he looked worse for the wear; better, far better than the empty carcass he had been during the battle of Hogwarts, but in the unflattering dull light that the window casted on him, his handsome figure seemed broken the same way statues in museums were.

The uncomfortable silence stretched as the two former enemies stared at each other, until at last, in one final act of surrender, Draco nodded respectfully to Hermione and started making his way to the door. However, he paused the moment he was about to brush past Hermione's left side. He turned to look at the muggleborn with the faintest hint of concern.

"How bad is it?" He asked quietly, his voice sounding strained.

"I-I don't know what you're talking about." Hermione stammered.

"Granger," Draco drawled haughtily, somehow making her name sound like a boast, and Hermione almost sighed with relief - this was the Draco she was used to. "You may have many faults but stupidity is not one of them." With his right hand, the pureblood lifted his left arm as if the limb was dead weight. Despite the thick tweed and leather gloves Draco was wearing, Hermione could still see how his left hand quivered significantly. "I can feel the dark magic radiating from you."

Hermione looked down at her feet, surprised at the intensity of the shame she was feeling.

"Show you mine if you show me yours." Draco offered gently, the sharp contrast with his previously hard voice enough to make Hermione look up at him. She nodded, and watched as Draco took his glove off revealing a hand covered in black and blue bruises. The boy then lifted his sleeve up, his jaw visibly tightening as he tried not to act like he was in pain. There Hermione saw Draco's dark man angrily twisiting and curling around his arm as if trying to strangle it. His arm was bloodshot, pulsating shocks of some black poison but Hermione could see that something was blocking the poison from spreading to the rest of his body. The mark seemed delighted to see her, pulling at Draco's skin to get closer to her until Draco quickly shoved his sleeve back down and put the glove back on. "Go on, Granger. Your turn now."

Hermione hesitated, but then shook her head and quickly pushed up her sleeve revealing her own parasite.

"Has-has my mother seen it?" Draco asked wearily.

"No." Hermione replied, rolling her jumper back down. "I see no reason for her to."

"Well I think you should do so soon." He said as he straightened back into his posture with his hands behind his back as if they were tied by some invisible chain. "I can guarantee you you won't live for much longer, let alone have an arm, if you leave that untreated." The blonde boy looked at her stoically. "You need to deal with it, Granger. There is nothing deep down inside us except that which we have put there ourselves." He nodded at her as a parting gesture. "See you around, Granger."

Rooted to her spot, Hermione heard him shut the door behind him and the empty silence that followed his departure was far more uncomfortable than the one they had shared.

_How do I tell her?_ She asked herself over and over again, barely registering that her knees had bent down, throwing her into a kneeling position on the ground.

_How do I tell her... that I? How - _

"Hermione... are you okay?" She heard a soft voice say in the distance.

A warm hand touched her cheek and the young witch was startled back into life. She blinked a couple of times, and saw Narcissa kneeling patiently in front of her, their knees almost touching.

"Hermione," The older witch repeated, her voice feeling like a warm blanket being put around her. "It's okay now." Hermione looked up to Narcissa as if the older witch was air and she was drowning.

"What happened?" The pureblood asked softly.

Hermione shook her head stubbornly. "Nothing." She managed to croak out, at last noticing that she was crying. "Nothing."

The older witch didn't falter for a second, resting her hands on her thighs and felt the soft material of her tight dress. She knew she could wait this one out.

"Nothing." Hermione repeated. "I'm just very, very tired. Didn't sleep well last night." She rambled. The younger witch shook her head, surprised she was still crying, then, as if exasperated with herself she shoved up her sleeve revealing what lay hidden in her forearm.

"Oh, Mione." Narcissa exclaimed quietly. "We need to get you upstairs right now."

**To be continued.**


	13. Chapter 13

Narcissa slammed open the door at the bottom of the staircase, sending a silent thanks to the fortress for not choosing this time of all times to play around with her. With an arm supporting most of Hermione's weight, she half carried the girl to the large wooden chair that stood surrounded by her shelves of potion ingredients. The windowless room was illuminated with oil lamps that floated around the room casting shadows on all the colourful glass vials and containers. The room was as cold as the dungeons in Hogwarts, except here, the sound of the waves crashing against the marble walls could be heard in the distance whereas the static lake insulated Hogwarts' dungeons from any outside sound.

"Hermione, listen to me." Narcissa said as calmly as she could. "This curse has evolved great lengths from what it once was." She traced her wand up the length of Hermione's arm, holding the muggleborn's hand tightly in hers as Hermione bit back a moan upon the contact from the wand. "It's flowing all through your blood. I need to draw the magic back to a containable area before your heart gives out."

Hermione looked up at the pureblood, immediately feeling grotesquely guilty for what she was putting the older witch through. Narcissa's usual calm and collected expression had been abandoned for a tense frown and fearful eyes. "I trust you." Hermione managed through gritted teeth.

"I should give you something to knock you out." Narcissa said resolutely, as she tore through calculations in her head.

"No!" Hermione pleaded. "Don't knock me out."

"It's going to hurt and you need to keep still lest you break the trance."

"I can keep still."

Narcissa was about to argue back until she saw the resolve in the younger witch's eye. There was no point wasting time trying to convince her. "Don't say I didn't offer." Narcissa drawled out sarcastically, trying to sound casual as she started hastily pulling containers off the shelves and set a bunch of sweet smelling herbs on fire, their smoke lazily filling the lab with wispy curls of green smoke.

Hermione closed her eyes, the smell of the herbs lulling her into a peaceful trance that focused her attention on the sound of the waves crashing around her. She could hear Narcissa moving around in the room and had her arm not felt like it was splintering into tiny pieces, she was certain she would've felt very content.

"This, this is..." Narcissa sounded apologetic, and Hermione opened her eyes to see Narcissa standing with a vial of black liquid looking deeply hesitant. "This is going to get it's attention."

"Go for it." Hermione choked out, noticing how moving, even to speak, had become a very difficult thing to do now that the smoke had taken control of her body, synchronising her heartbeat to the waves.

Narcissa bit her lip, bending down to sit on a low stool and carefully poured the dense liquid over Hermione's scar. The effect was immediate.

The young witch wanted to close her eyes and scream but found herself unable to move an inch. Petrified like stone, Hermione watched as Narcissa moved her wand across her arm muttering at a frantic pace. Suddenly, as Narcissa's whispers grew even faster and faster in pace, Hermione realised how very afraid she was.

Never had she known such a belly-tightening fear, not even when Bellatrix had dragged her by her hair telling her all the things she was going to do to her in a sing-song voice if she didn't tell her how she got the sword. She was afraid that the magic would rip her apart, yes, but even more she dreaded moving and breaking the trance. And if she did, she didn't need Narcissa to tell her that the magic would consume her. The magic would kill her for giving in to her fear, to the darkness. This thought, in turn, fed her fear, intensified it until sweat poured down her ribs and soaked her shirt.

A wind began blowing, rattling all the glass vials and chilling her to the core, and she despaired because she felt herself falling through a black bottomless night from which there was no escape. _There is nothing deep down inside us except that which we have put there ourselves _\- she remembered Draco saying this just a little while ago. And repeating the words in her head, she willed herself to stare into the darkness that was enveloping her, welcoming in Narcissa's purging magic. In a moment of exhilaration she realised that she was there to surrender up her fear, or rather, to lose a part of herself, to let die her childish conception of herself as a separate being terrified of the darkness of the world.

Just then, Narcissa's voice started growing considerably louder, filling the small laboratory with her incantations. She felt the blood that flowed through her body start boiling under her skin, it was a mutilating and scorching pain. Hermione clenched her jaws so hard she thought her teeth would break off in splinters and be driven into her gums; her muscles strained to rip apart from her bones, and instantly her eyes were burning so badly she could not see. She could still hear, though, and in many ways that was the worst of it, the crunching, ripping sounds of the magic cackling through her body and the curse coming out and screeching "MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD!" in that terrible voice of its. _It hurts! _She silently screamed. _Oh, God, it hurts! _The pain was a black flame burning up her arm into her heart and spine. The pain ate her alive; the world was nothing but fire and pain and that stupid, nasty word 'MUDBLOOD! MUDBLOOD!'.

But there came a moment when her body was like a single nerve connected to a vastly greater ganglia and webwork of living things; she was part of that infinite ocean she was in the belly of. She could her the death scream of Tom Riddle, and all the death eaters she had killed and all the friends that had died in front of her exploding from within her mind; she remembered the electricity of the magic that had scorched her arm when she had cast the killing curse, and felt a sudden pressure below her ribs, as if a spear or claw had pierced her liver. In one blinding moment she saw again the face of her parents as they forgot her. The hurt of all these people and things flowed into her like a river of molten stone. She ached to move, to scream, to push herself off the chair and run away. Only now, wholly consumed by the terrible pain that was the awareness of life, she was no longer afraid. Beyond pain, there was only death. Death was the left hand of life, and suddenly Hermione beheld its long cold fingers and deep lines with a clarity of vision that astonished her. Seen from one perspective, death was cruel and dreadful like a murderer's hand over a baby's face; but from another, death was as familiar and nonfrightening as the whorls of a father's open palm. She would die, tonight or a thousand nights hence - she could almost see the moment when the light would flee her eyes and join all the other lights in the sky. She would die and no desire for an invisibility cloak was roused within her. Even now, as Narcissa's magic ruthlessly teared away the dark, foul magic that had ingrained itself into her body, she was dying, but strangely she had never been so alive.

She held herself quiet and still, listening to to the wind beating at the waves. She heard Narcissa's voice, softer now, whispering that Hermione herself would have to confront the darkness within her if she ever hoped to survive.

_There is nothing deep down inside us except that which we have put there ourselves. _Hermione told herself.

And inside her, despite the pain, at the centre of her deepest self, she accepted all the horrors she had committed and which had fed the darkness of the curse on her arm. In some ways she would always be tainted, no matter any purging she went through, but she understood that purity was not a thing that existed.

"Hermione!" Narcissa called out with relief. "Your blood is finally flowing red!"

The young witch listened to her deep breathing as other cuts were carved into her flesh, tiny cuts up and down the length of her arm. Hermione saw Narcissa making the incisions with a knife as she rubbed various coloured powders into them. The cuts would fester and then heal; briefly, she wondered whether her arm would now forever be decorated with dozens of green and ocher scars.

"How is the pain?" The pureblood asked her gently. Hermione felt something soft and soothing being wrapped around her arm, it felt like wet moss and smelt like mint leaves. "Hermione, you're going to have to rest for some time. What remains of your strength will be depleted in the coming days as the magic works on itself." Narcissa then stood up looking for something on the many shelves. "Here - this will help with the pain. Open your mouth and swallow it without chewing."

Hermione did as she was told. Like a baby bird she opened her mouth and waited. Suddenly she felt a bit of raw meat pressed into her mouth, back against her tongue. She swallowed once, convulsively, and she tasted warm blood.

"Sorry, I know it's not pleasant, but a morsel of vampire's heart is the only thing that can dull this type of pain." Narcissa explained apologetically as she fetched a basin and a towel and soothed Hermione's feverish face before moving down to clean up her arm. The piercing pain started dwindling, replaced instead with exhaustion, but Hermione didn't mind quietly watching Narcissa carry out her ministrations. Relief looked so good on the older witch, Hermione noted.

"You're not cured." Narcissa confessed, dipping the towel in the water. "Not by far." The pureblood continued as she cleaned Hermione's arm. "But we've bought you a reasonable amount of time."

"Thank you." Hermione rasped out at last.

"Please... don't." Narcissa whispered. "It's my fault. I should've intervened. I should've never let this happen -"

"Cissy," The younger witch interrupted. "It's okay."

"How can it be okay?" Narcissa snapped back, trying to discreetly wipe away a tear. "I am an inventor of cruelties unworthy of civilised men. Look how I've made you suffer when I could've stopped this from ever happening."

"Cissy," Hermione started again, grabbing the older witch's hand and forcing her to look into her eyes. "What makes us human is the fact we suffer. Suffering is not a problem to be overcome." Hermione coughed, closing her eyes as she felt her lungs burning. "Suffering is an essential part of what it means to exist - it is a vital experience."

"That doesn't mean that you should suffer needlessly." Narcissa retorted, rubbing her finger over Hermione's wrist and finding comfort in feeling the younger witch's pulse beating against her thumb.

Hermione chuckled despite herself. "I think... Cissy, that consciousness is what makes us distinctly human, so the only way we can lend our lives weight and substance is to embrace this suffering." Hermione ran her free hand through Narcissa's hair. "If we turn away from it, we are not only turning away from what makes us human, we are also turning away from consciousness." Another chesty cough. "It is essential to acknowledge our pain, because it is only when we face the fact of our suffering that we become capable of truly loving other suffering beings." Narcissa closed her eyes, listening to Hermione's gentle words as the younger witch stroked her hair. "I suppose this presents us with a stark choice," she continued. "On the one hand, we can choose happiness by turning away from suffering. Or we forsake happiness for love."

"That sounds absurd." Narcissa whispered, leaning her head on Hermione's thighs and letting the younger witch carry out her ministrations.

"It's true because it's absurd." Hermione responded gently. "Which means we must believe, even if we don't understand. You have nothing to feel guilty about, Cissy."

The pureblood slowly lifted her head and shook it in disagreement. "I have done so many terrible things, Hermione, truly monstrous things - I am a monster. And yes, you can love a monster, it can even love you back, but that doesn't change the fact that it's a monster."

Hermione wiped her brow as a feverish drop of sweat trickled down her forehead. "Why do you keep punishing yourself, Cissy?" She asked, her voice faint and wheezy.

"Because it is not enough to accuse oneself to relieve oneself of guilt, Hermione!" The pureblood immediately replied, unable to keep the horror from her voice.

"But, Narcissa, don't you realise that no one is innocent? Don't you realise that in this moment, like in every other moment in life, the one thing we can pronounce with certainty is that everyone is guilty. We all bear witness to each other crimes. All we can do is love and forgive ourselves and each other."

"Forgiveness?" Narcissa repeated incredulously. "I deserve no such thing."

"You don't forgive people because they deserve it." Hermione replied, resting her arm on the older witch's shoulder and leaning all of her weight on her. "You forgive them because they need it."

"I beg to disagree." Narcissa replied, pulling the muggleborn up to her feet as she chuckled dryly at the older witch's stubborn response. "And before you try to argue back, we need to get you to a bed. Travelling is out of the question for the time being, so you'll stay here until you've recovered her strength."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest as they slowly made their way to the door. "No. I don't even want to hear it." Narcissa said as she opened the door. "I'll send a letter to Mr. Potter, but until you've got your strength back, any travel, even muggle transport, would be a reckless exercise in suicide."

Hermione closed her mouth, knowing better than to argue against Narcissa, and leaned her head on the older witch's shoulder, losing herself in Narcissa's vanilla scent. If she was being honest, she was exhausted and a bed sounded heavenly. "Okay, Cissy. To bed it is."

**Massive big thanks to everyone's support. This had to be posted slightly later than I had hoped because it was my last day of school recently and I'm still going through all the stages of grief. R&amp;R!**


	14. Chapter 14

It was a cold, biting fever. The sort that made the body tremble with shivers. The delirium of cold temperatures was as fickle as that of hot ones. Narcissa had lost count of how many times she'd seen it before. Another blanket. More logs in the fire. And patience. She knew this was as much a test of temper as it was of medicine. No potions. No magic. Just a caring hand. It went against all her instincts as a witch - so used to pushing the laws of nature that it took nerves of steel not to give in and just break them properly once and for all. Of course, all hell would break loose, she knew this, but it was so easy to forget when she saw the younger witch muttering frantically in her sleep, beads of sweat running down her icy forehead.

Maybe just a little spell, you know, to ease the discomfort. No, _no_. Hermione's body was so overloaded with magic, any more would tip the balance and her body would be consumed by it. Her body... her body would stop being a physical thing, converted wholly into a substance of pure magical energy. Nasty death, to be honest. Quite common during the early 1800's when half-cocked magical experimentation was the avant-garde entertainment for high society parties. Between botched experiments and twenty wands casting healing spells, many a carpet was sacrificed at the altar of impatience. The road to Hades was paved with good intentions (and intoxicated fools brandishing a wand). Sometimes, sometimes the muggle way of doing things was the only way of doing things, for contrary to what the Dark Lord had led them to believe, magic did not make omnipotent gods of them all.

Narcissa sighed as she kept her vigil over the muggleborn. She knew there was a party going on that she should be attending. It was up in Scotland - someone's spring castle. It was a promising soirée; the further north the party, the more bizarrely entertaining they had a tendency to become. London society had forgotten the meaning of bohemianism, and it took a kooky Scottish warlock with an obstacle course for a residence, a legendary wine cellar and the ruse of a masquerade to jump shock all those old snobs into... well... dropping the snobbery for a night. And honestly, what better a time than that to convince Ulysses Stark to pass that war tribunals reform? And Emilia Rosenberg was also going to be there - when she got tipsy, and with the right cooing, the woman was prone to revealing in which direction the Wizengamot's agenda was heading. Not to mention the old gang...

Narcissa glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece - the time for being able to get away with 'fashionably late' was quickly running out. It made her uncomfortable to know that her absence would be noted as all the guests carried out their debauchery - a footnote in her honour, pondering on her absence would definitely be featured in next months Tatler. But for the sheer life of her, she refused to leave the brunette lying on the bed, even in the careful hands of Limpy.

No, no. Business could wait another day. Hermione needed her and she'd be damned if some tribunal reform was going to get in the way. Lucius never understood priorities. In trying to provide the best for his family he forgot them. And himself. Yes, Lucius had been cold and cowardly, stubborn and occasionally brutal, but never for a moment had Narcissa doubted that most of what he had done, he had done for her and Draco. A cruel fool, but a cruel fool with good intentions - the wickedest kind, in her opinion.

She needed only to close her eyes, and with a clarity that was terrifying, she could picture every single fight they had ever had. All of it - the begging, the crying, the swearing, the broken glasses, the slapping, the threats, the curses, the torn clothing, the bruises - all twenty years of that madness. In those long, bitter years of marriage Narcissa had been reduced to many things: the taste of vodkavenom; ripped silk; the feeling of rough stubble against the skin; foggy mornings; a flash of grey eyes; the smell of cologne; the way chins tremble when trying not to cry. Now... well now she was a mirror draped in black; burnt photographs; spilt wine; a wince at raised voices.

The fire cackled and Narcissa opened her eyes. Hermione was gazing at her with an expression of contented exhaustion. They shared a small amused smile.

"How are you feeling?" Narcissa asked as she stood up and placed a hand on Hermione's forehead to check her temperature. The young witch moaned at the contact, the warmth of Narcissa's hand breaking through the coldness. Hermione clasped Narcissa's hand over her cheek.

"You are so warm." Hermione mumbled.

Narcissa paused for a moment before pulling her hand away despite Hermione's feeble protestations. "Patience, Miss Granger; they say it's a virtue."

The pureblood hesitated again. "Oh for goodness sake - it _is_ the best way to raise her temperature." She berated herself. Narcissa stripped off her dress and summoned her silk shorts pyjamas. Gently, she slipped into the bed, suppressing the shiver she felt as Hermione immediately gravitated to the new source of warmth.

"I'm... I'm sorry for causing so much trouble." Hermione mumbled as Narcissa pulled the girl into her arms.

"Nonsense." The pureblood reassured her as she snuggled her head under the older witch's chin. "You've caused no trouble at all."

"Narcissa?"

"Hmm?"

"I just wanted you to know..."

Narcissa waited as her heartbeat started running. Then she felt Hermione's breathing relax and knew she had fallen asleep. "Tomorrow perhaps, then."

Closing her own eyes, Narcissa felt Hermione's chest slowly lifting and falling against her own ribcage. In... out. In... out. It was like feeling the eternity of the cool sea gently crashing against her. In... out. In... out. Each breath a wave that had travelled worlds to reach the shore. In... out. In... out.

In... out...

In... out...

**Updating will be a little erratic due to the sad, sad fact my exams have started but I thought I'd treat you all to a little update to commerate the semi-successful attempt I made at my first philosophy exam. Wish me luck guys – my whole future rests on the next two weeks (has nervous breakdown). Good luck to those going through similar cruelties. R&amp;R! **


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Hermione parted with her heavy sleep to find herself engulfed by an overwhelming sense of relief. Eyes still closed she revelled in the sheer... coziness she felt. She snuggled closer to the only source of heat, trying to place the different smells that surrounded her. It definitely reminded her of vanilla. Maybe even sunshine. Hermione almost giggled to herself - sunshine? What a peculiar thing to be able to smell, and yet, it entered into her with each breath into her lungs, filling her up, imbuing her with the warmth she lacked. Maybe it was more like honey. No, it wasn't quite honey. Hermione furrowed her brow, it was such a familiar smell, why couldn't she place it?

The witch opened her hazel eyes to greet the morning with the sight of Narcissa sleeping soundly under a small barricade of covers. Hermione couldn't help the huge lopsided smile that spread on her lips as she assessed the full extent of Narcissa's messy hair. Black and blonde strands were splayed all over the white pillows and Hermione decided in a heartbeat that Narcissa had never looked more stunning.

Her eyes travelled down the pureblood's long, white neck where a hidden necklace had fallen out into display. The thick silver chain dangled a diamond and ivory studded crest that rested on the sheets between the two witches. It was a crest Hermione was far too familiar with. Trying to move as gently as possible, the muggleborn dared to touch the cool metal, her thumb tracing over the white skull that headed the coat of arms, before trailing down to the three crows that stood over the family motto. _Toujours pur_.

Hermione looked back up to Narcissa's peaceful face and wondered - was it irony or a warning?

The thought was immediately abandoned as Narcissa stretched her left arm and pulled her closer. Stunned and pressed against the pureblood's warm chest, Hermione could hear Narcissa's heartbeat against her ear. So distracted by the position, Hermione almost missed what the older witch was saying.

"Coffee..." She mumbled softly. "Where's my coffee?"

Immediately the room was flooded with the smell of roasted coffee beans.

Narcissa opened her eyes and with magnificent blush released Hermione from her grip.

"Coffee?" The older witch offered in an incredibly high pitch voice.

"Coffee sounds heavenly." Hermione replied with an easy smile as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and wrapped herself in the thickest cover. Narcissa noted the shiver that ran down Hermione's body as she pulled away from her to levitate the pot of steaming coffee towards them.

"How you feeling?"

"Still exhausted and cold as a corpse." Hermione responded, immediately regretting her poor choice of words as an unamused scowl flashed on Narcissa's face as she handed her a porcelain mug with her coffee just the way she like it.

"Appropriate, I suppose," the pureblood said testily, "seeing as you did so nearly kill yourself via neglect."

Hermione winced into her cup. "It wasn't... you know... on purpose."

"That is the nature of neglect." Narcissa drawled back coldly.

"That's not what I meant." Hermione offered nervously.

"Of course, let me imagine - you just thought that the black magic curse that is basically tattooed on your arm would just clear itself up. That maybe, if you ignored it long enough it would just go away."

Hermione winced again, she had forgotten how biting Narcissa's sarcasm could be. "No," Hermione muttered, meekly trying to defend herself. "I just... didn't think it was that important?"

"Not important?" Narcissa hissed, the volume of her voice lowering as her temper rose. "Don't you realise that a person is, among all else, a material thing - easily torn and not easily mended. You were - and are, might I add - dying, Hermione. _Dying_. That's not something that can just be shrugged off."

"I just... I just..." Hermione rubbed the back of her neck trying to remember what she had just, "didn't want to inconvenience anyone?" Hermione grimaced at how bad that sounded, even to herself, and quickly tried correcting herself. "No, no, I mean - I just didn't think it was that important." Hermione instantly realised she was repeating herself. "As in, you know -"

"No, I don't know." Narcissa drawled out in a tone colder than the North Sea. "Enlighten me."

"I guess... I was just ashamed." Hermione confessed to her coffee in a barely audible voice. "I'm tainted - and broken - and it's hard enough to admit to myself, let alone to anyone else. Plus," the muggleborn gulped, "our research hasn't exactly provided any optimistic prognosis. If there's no hope then what's the point worrying anyone? - I'm not that important."

Narcissa put her mug on the bedside table and took Hermione's to put it next to her's on the nightstand. Before Hermione could ask what Narcissa was doing the older witch had pulled her into her arms. "You are to me."

Hermione relaxed into the embrace, leaning her head on the pureblood's shoulder as the older witch ran her hand up and down Hermione's cold back soothingly as if to reassure herself that the muggleborn was still here with her. "I'm sorry." Hermione mumbled.

"Damn right you should be." Narcissa retorted, but it lacked any of the bite it had before. "Now, Miss Granger," the pureblood said as they pulled apart. "We're going to fix you." Narcissa placed her hand on Hermione's jaw and rubbed her thumb on her icy cheek. "But first a bath and then breakfast."

Hermione laughed and Narcissa dropped her hands back to her lap.

"That sounds heavenly." Hermione repeated.

Narcissa smiled and got out of the bed looking for something. She rummaged in all the drawers of the little writing desk that sat next to the window and walked back to the bed with a little vial in her hand.

"Old family recipe for heating the body during winter and numbing pain." Narcissa handed the vial with golden liquid to Hermione. "Have a small sip every once in a while. It barely has any magic in it, so I'm sure you're body can take it. Of course, if you think it's too risky there's always more jumpe-"

"I trust you." Hermione stated, and despite the casual shrug that accompanied the comment, it sounded more like a promise than a response.

Narcissa nodded. "Ok." She replied as if to seal the vow. "I'll see you in the dining room then. Limpy picked up clean clothes for you last night, you should have all you need in the drawers. And I'll redress the bandages after we have something to eat."

"Thank you." Hermione said as she slowly dropped her feet on the ground.

"That reminds me." Narcissa pulled out her wand and conjured a wooden wheelchair. "You shouldn't be walking."

"I think I can make it to the bathroom." Hermione responded stubbornly. Narcissa raised a disapproving eyebrow. "But I will use the wheelchair from then on."

The pureblood tutted at the compromise and moved to the door. "You better, Miss Granger."

Hermione was left alone in the blue room.

_I trust you. _The words rang in Hermione's head as her thumb ran over the smooth label on the bottle. _I trust you. _This was the second time in less than twenty four hours that she had expressed the sentiment, and as Hermione trudged to the bathroom she idly wondered when that had happened.

The water started pooling in the large bath the moment she walked in and Hermione flung her shirt on the floor before picking up the bottle again. _Fortes _it spelled out in Narcissa's careful penmanship. Then, as she was about to settle the bottle back on the counter, it occurred to her that that was probably it - what had subconsciously dispelled her suspicions about the older witch. How silly, Hermione thought, that a person's good handwriting and syntax had such an effect on her.

However, maybe there was something to it, Hermione thought as she dipped a finger in the water to check the temperature. Too hot. Narcissa's measured words and carefully constructed script suggested to Hermione that the pureblood was a person who knew how to put things in their right place; that she could trust her because a person who could respect even the correct way of writing a word, would surely be able to respect the more important things in life.

Hermione finished undressing and slowly dipped herself in the gloriously hot bath.

Slowly, she un-bandaged her arm, wincing all the way through. She sighed. It was a mess, like somebody had tried to pass a lawnmower over it and then proceeded to whack it with metal pipe. She took a small swing of the vial Narcissa gave her, surprised of how much it tasted of scotch and gradually dunked her arm in the water, stifling a yelp each time a colourful cut made contact with the water.

She took another swing of the drink, becoming more convinced that the 'old family recipe' was just enhanced alcohol as it burned her throat on its way down. The realisation made Hermione burst out laughing.

**Four exams down two more to go, guys! Thanks for all the love. R&amp;R!**


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Narcissa slipped into some black slacks and threw an emerald robe over her; she was far too famished to go through the nuisance of properly getting ready for the day without another cup of coffee. The pureblood grabbed the newspaper Limpy had left for her on her nightstand and walked out of the room as she scanned the front page. Apparently a small muggle village in West Yorkshire was being haunted by dementors and the ministry was still working on a strategy for dealing with the situation. Narcissa opened the door to the dining hall without diverting her attention from the paper. She would have to speak to the Head of the Muggle Defence Department - after all, she hadn't raised so many galleons for the anti-dementor fundraiser for such poor results.

Narcissa turned to page three and raised a sculpted eyebrow.

"That doesn't look good." Hermione said as she wheeled herself in the room. Narcissa jumped in her chair.

"Forgive me, I was engrossed." The pureblood replied as she closed the newspaper.

Hermione pushed her wheelchair next to Narcissa on the long mahogany table. "You know - wheelchair - _really_ unpractical." Narcissa crossed her arms and pursed her lips at the younger witch in a look of total disapproval. "But, if you think it's necessary..." Hermione trailed off picking up the newspaper, her face darkening as she read about the fate of the populace of the little Yorkshire town. The weariness was quickly replaced by shock as she opened the paper and was greeted by the photo of McLaggen Senior snogging an unknown woman in all its moving glory. "Well that was unexpected." Hermione finally stated as she put the paper down. "I thought he was really into you."

"Hmm." Narcissa replied in a tone that did not sound happy at all.

Hermione felt a bubble of envy ripple in the pit of her stomach. "Do _you_ like him?" She asked trying to keep her voice even.

"Who would that be?" Narcissa asked casually as the food appeared before them. "Oh, you mean Charles?" She nodded towards the newspaper as she served herself a slice of salmon. "As much as the next man."

Hermione rubbed her eyes, forcing the feeling away. "I'm sorry, it's none of my business."

"That's quite alright." Narcissa replied dismissively. "Anyway, there are far more riveting topics for conversation than any page three nonsense."

"Quite right," Hermione said tentatively as she took a bite of her salmon. "I've had more than enough of my share of that world."

"Ah yes... one Miss Rita Skeeter does come to mind." Narcissa said with the smallest of mischievous smiles. Hermione blushed red as the cranberry juice in the jug at the centre of the table.

"No comment." The muggleborn spluttered out, a smile spreading across her face as the room was filled with Narcissa's tinkling laughter. The mirth spread quickly and soon both witches were laughing as they swapped stories of their misadventures with various members of the press as they had their breakfast.

Hermione had a sip of her tea and leaned into her wheelchair. "You have work to do, Cissy. You shouldn't blow off your commitments on my account."

Narcissa stood up and started pushing Hermione back to her bedroom. "Contrary to what you like to tell yourself, someone needs to keep an eye on you - make sure you don't die."

"But what you do - your work - all the people you talk to, all the plans you have. It's important." Hermione responded. "I bet if you open your diary you have a hundred things to do today. A hundred people to meet."

"A hundred you say?" Narcissa asked amused. "You're not a wise gambler, are you, Miss Granger?"

"You know what I mean."

"Well, I suppose Andromeda could always come over." The slytherin mused. "It's a Monday and Teddy's at that... institution... Andromeda is adamant on sending him to."

"Institution?" Hermione asked, unable to keep a slight incredulity out of her voice. "You mean nursery, right?"

"Mmmh... if that's how you call it." Narcissa replied, opening the door.

"What's wrong with nursery?" Hermione asked furrowing her brows.

"Nothing... per say." Narcissa replied with a disapproving shrug of the shoulders. "It's just not... tradition."

Hermione crossed her arms. "What does tradition dictate, then?"

"Oh you know..." Narcissa said absently as she dug in her drawers to find all the supplies she needed to redress Hermione's arm. "Rearing a child is best left to the house elves. Who else would you trust your child to? Plus, there's nothing like the bond a person forms with the house elf that took care of them."

Hermione sighed and Narcissa turned around with a confused expression. "Something the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing." Hermione replied half-heartedly. Narcissa raised an inquiring eyebrow. "No, it's just sometimes I forget how different we are." The pureblood leaned back on the drawer until understanding dawned on her face.

"How could I forget?... Draco used to tell me all about your... campaign to free house elves." The pureblood tucked a loose silver strand behind her ear. "You don't approve of the old ways." She stated simply and sat on a stool next to Hermione.

"The old ways don't approve of me." Hermione replied mildly.

"That may be so," Narcissa conceded. "But," she paused to pick the first ointment she would use, "no one man, however brilliant, can justify the arrogance necessary to judge and dismiss all the traditions and institutions of his society - brace yourself -" Hermione hissed in pain when the wet cotton made contact with her skin. "Shuu, it's okay. Take deep breaths." Narcissa stroked Hermione's head soothingly as the first cut absorbed the potion. "The customs we have are the wisdom of generations after centuries of experiment."

"It's not arrogance to question customs that are barbaric." Hermione retorted through gritted teeth as Narcissa dabbed another cut and pain shot from her arm to her spine.

"Of course," the slytherin replied absently, inspecting how damaged the scars spelling out MUDBLOOD on Hermione's arm were. "But we would all do best to remember that of every hundred new ideas, ninety-nine or more will probably be inferior to the traditional responses which they propose to replace."

"Is that... how you justify... blood prejudice... and slavery?" Hermione asked through lungfuls of difficult breaths.

Narcissa paused her ministrations. "It's not that simple."

"Oh really?" Hermione asked sarcastically, beads of sweat rolling down her face. "Forgive my... naivety... on the matter."

"I understand your particular... misgivings, about my world." Narcissa said carefully as she dabbed Hermione's cool forehead with a warm towel. "However, there is a world of a difference between what the Dark Lord twisted our customs to, and what our customs are actually like." Narcissa dipped the towel back in the tepid water and sighed tiredly. "But I suppose I can't blame you if you can't see the difference," she uncorked another bottle, "you have had the misfortune of only being exposed to the cruelties the old ways can lend themselves to." Narcissa looked up to Hermione with a gentle expression. "There's more to them, however, and they're all part of me."

"Even... after you've witnessed... how... inhumane... the consequences... are?" Hermione asked trying to catch her breath as her arm started burning up.

"Again, you're confusing two different things." Narcissa said gently as she rubbed a salve over the muggleborn's scars. "After two wars I have discovered the awful truth: what we conventionally call inhuman is simple humanity under pressure. Please don't confuse my heritage with scared men doing cruel things because they don't know any better."

"Scared men? Scared of what?" Hermione asked incredulously.

Narcissa chuckled darkly. "Oh, Miss Granger, you have a lot to learn about how things look like from this side of history." She then wrapped Hermione's arm in the white bandage. "There we go. Anyways, it's far too early for tragic stories and you need to rest and I need to get ready if I'm to follow your orders to work."

"Okay, but this conversation isn't over." Hermione said, surprised at how exhausted she felt.

"I had a feeling it wasn't." Narcissa mumbled as she put the colourful bottles back in the drawer.

"What are you up to today?" Hermione asked curiously.

Narcissa smiled at Hermione. "Oh you know, a hundred things to do and a hundred people to meet." She squeezed Hermione's good shoulder gently as she made her way to her closet. "I have a committee to attend to - need to organise a ball to commemorate the end of the war." Narcissa poked her head out of her closet. "Which reminds me - I should be lobbying you to attend."

"Wait-" Hermione said through a yawn, "is this that annual thing I get an invitation every year to?"

"That would be the one." Narcissa replied with amusement. "You and Mr. Potter are notoriously anti-social." She said from within her dressing room. "But a celebration of the war's end isn't quite the same without the key players."

"That's what Ron's for." Hermione said with a chuckle, pulling a green tartan cover over her. "He _loves_ that stuff."

"Trust me - I am well aware." Narcissa answered. "Catering to my 'guest of honour's' demands is quite a large part of my job."

"I think I do remember him saying something about purposely pissing off the organising committee as one of the perks of accepting the invite." Hermione said with a frown.

"That does sound like Mr. Weasley." Narcissa said with a sigh as she walked out of the closet with two dresses in her hand. "Which one do you like more?"

Hermione leaned back into her wheelchair and admired the stunning sartorial creations in front of her. One was a two part dress, the smooth, thick, mint green brocade fabric ran from where the waist would be, hugging the thighs until it flared more loosely down to the ankles. The top part was so dark Hermione wasn't sure if it was still green, but the dark satin would wrap itself up to the base of Narcissa's neck, whilst the pureblood would carry a bundle of light and transparent chiffon that was attached to the midsection of the dress in such a manner that screamed 'avant-garde'. The second dress was completely different - all cashmere layers, a thick black belt and what looked like a military style jacket from the 18th century. As the muggleborn considered which one she preferred, she mused how Narcissa's fashion sense was fierce, stunning and most of the time incredibly unpractical, but always a joy to look at.

"Depends," Hermione answered at last. "Are you going for the stunning factor or the serious business look?"

"I suppose the serious business look would be more sensible." Narcissa said with a small sigh and Hermione swore she saw a small pout on Narcissa's lips. Hermione felt a wave of fondness for the older witch crash over her and she couldn't help but laugh comfortably at how normal the situation felt.

"Then definitely the cashmere dress." Hermione said with a carefree smile. "The whole faux military vibe it gives off is perfect for business."

Narcissa dropped the other dress on the bed and levitated the olive green one in the air so she could inspect it properly. "Are you sure it's..." she paused to consider her words, cocking her head in concentration, "impressive enough?"

At this Hermione grinned. "So, Miss Black - you dress to impress?" She said cheekily.

Narcissa turned around with the most mischievous smile, "Oh, no, Miss Granger - I undress to impress."

Both witches burst out laughing, Hermione's cheeks burning red from bashfulness as ripples of laughter escaped her lips.

"Well, I better get this on." Narcissa said with a coy smile as she walked back in the closet.

Hermione heard the dull swoosh of Narcissa's robes falling to the ground and for a reason she did not want to investigate further, her cheeks were flushed again.

"You still haven't accepted my invitation and I won't take no for an answer." Narcissa said from inside. Hermione shook her head, forcing herself not to think about the feeling of silk falling off skin.

"What invitation was that, sorry?" Hermione asked meekly.

"The ball - you'll bring Mr. Potter, right?"

"Oh, yes, yes. I see no reason why not."

"Excellent." Narcissa said with a sincere smile as she walked back into the room. "It's in a couple of weeks time - more than enough for you to get some of your strength back." Narcissa then paused, concern painting her features. "Hermione - what happened? Are you alright?"

Hermione blinked rapidly, just noticing that her mouth was hanging open and she had forgotten to breath. "No... it's nothing. It's just. Narcissa. You look... stunning."

It was the pureblood's turn to blush. Hermione was not looking at her with lust or greed, and that alone was enough to floor Narcissa with a respite she hadn't known she'd needed. It was a gentle expression - somewhere between wonder and affection. What a relief, Narcissa thought. What a relief it is to have someone look at you that way.

"Thank you." The pureblood said at last. "I should call for Andromeda now."

**Thanks for the patience guys. I've finally finished my exams! Now just comes that cold, harrowing wait for the results. I really can't thank y'all enough for all the support and comments and I hope you enjoyed :)) R&amp;R!**


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

"So... can I know why Hermione's ill and why, of all people, you're taking care of her?" Andromeda asked bemused on the other side of the Floo Network.

"It's a... long story, okay 'Dro? I don't have time for this. Can you look after her while I go to work - yes or no? It's a simple question." Narcissa asked, pinching the bridge of her nose, her sister always had a way of testing her patience which was unrivalled.

"Of course, Cissy." Andromeda replied in the same exasperated tone as her little sister. "I would just like to know what's going on."

"Like I said - it's a long story." Narcissa replied cooly.

"Touchy, touchy..." Andromeda teased. "Okay, give me ten minutes and I'll hop over."

"Thank you." Narcissa bit back sarcastically as she removed her head from the fireplace.

The pureblood sighed, running her hand through her hair and sat on the armchair. This was a terrible idea. Why had she let herself be talked into it? Andromeda, for all her merits, was not the most careful of people; after all, Nymphadora had inherited that clumsiness from somewhere and that somewhere was Andromeda with her carefree attitude that usually came hand in hand with benign carelessness; which in the case of Hermione's extremely delicate health could prove fatal. No, no, Hermione needed keen observation, the correct application of potions and ointments to draw the magic back to a containable area. This was a complicated process that required a steady hand and experience - what would Andromeda do if Hermione's temperature dropped again? Or her muscles were shredded because her arm was jogged too roughly and the magic broke out? And what if the second stage of recovery hit earlier than expected? - how would her sister cope with the disease fighting back?

This was a terrible idea.

"I'll be fine." Hermione said as she wheeled herself into the living room. "Really," she said with a small smile, "you have you're worried face on."

"Worried face?" Narcissa asked daintily.

"Hmm..." Hermione mumbled, parking her wheelchair next to where the pureblood sat by the fireplace. "Your eyes look harder and you purse your lips really tightly - kinda like McGonagall, except more politely somehow." She said in a matter-of-fact tone. "But you needn't worry, because I'll be _fine_."

"And if you're not - you'll never hear the end of it, Miss Granger." Narcissa warned, her tense expression softening slightly.

"What's the worse that can happen?" Hermione asked ironically.

Narcissa looked at the muggleborn with a deeply unimpressed expression. "Don't tempt the fates, Hermione."

"_Que sera, sera_." She replied confidently.

"You gryffindors and your reckless courage." Narcissa scoffed. "_Que sera, sera_ indeed." She said, laughing, despite herself, at the absurdity of the motto. "You do realise that that's the attitude that's got your house to have the highest mortality rate by a landslide?"

"Oh, come on!" Hermione exclaimed with good humour. "That is such an unfair statistic to bring up!"

"Really?" Narcissa asked sarcastically with a large amused smile. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that the rest of us are not rushing into a glorious and premature death." The pureblood replied mirthfully. "You see, some of us find our thrills in the uncertainty of tomorrow."

Hermione huffed. "The uncertainty of tomorrow? Nah, could never live with that." She grinned at Narcissa. "It sounds like such an empty place; so vague. 'Tomorrow' - where promises go and things disappear." Hermione furrowed her brows as a thought struck her. "I suppose that in Slytherin they teach you to save for a rainy day; trust me when I say I'm a big supporter of that philosophy; but with life, like love, the truth is, that they need no saving - it is fresh or not at all."

Narcissa leaned her head on her hand in an unladylike posture she knew she would've been swatted for by her mother had she seen her, but she was far too lost thinking about what Hermione had just said to correct herself. What a novel idea, Narcissa thought. To not let yesterdays love suffice for today. How that could work in the long-run, she had no idea, but it was a lovely thought nonetheless. "So is that the real Gryffindor philosophy?" She asked at last. "To love as recklessly as you live?"

"There is nothing reckless in valuing love above all else, even if it means sacrificing the possibility of tomorrow." Hermione said contently. "I know you wouldn't hesitate to do so yourself."

"That may be so, but at least I acknowledge that love is a cruel master." The pureblood said straightening up and smoothing her dress. "I don't romanticise it."

Hermione chuckled at this. "Wow... you don't romanticise love? That's a first."

"There are no lengths to which it does not force the human heart, Hermione." Narcissa said quietly. "The greatest sins have always been done in the name of love."

"As have the greatest virtues." Hermione replied.

"It's a selfish act." Narcissa retorted.

"It's a selfless one."

"It makes fools of us."

"We've always been fools."

"It hurts."

"Not always." Hermione returned gently. "And when it does, we get to chose whether it's worth it."

"And there," Narcissa said with a smug grin, "is the categorical mistake in your argument." Hermione leaned back curiously. "The language of choice cannot be applied to the language of love. Love compels. Demands. Remember Dido throwing all of Carthage up in flames for Aeneas. Her heart was inflamed, driving her to madness as the fire of passion rounded her bones. She had no free will whilst she was on fire with love." The pureblood paused momentarily before continuing. "Love is a passion, and like all passions, it is ruinous."

"So that's it, then?" Hermione asked incredulously. "We should just abandon love? Tear out our hearts like the Warlock and get hairy hearts of our own?"

"Oh, not at all, Miss Granger." Narcissa said with a sigh. "It's the only thing worth living for. But we should not pretend it's some pure, benign force. It can destroy cities just as easily as it can construct them."

Hermione was about to reply when Andromeda crashed out of the fireplace, dramatically falling face forward as she tripped on her robe in such a cantankerous manner Hermione couldn't help but be reminded of Tonks.

"_Every. Damn. Time._" Andy cursed under her breath, picking herself up and dusting herself off.

"Lovely to see you're as graceful as ever, 'Dromeda." Narcissa said with a sickly sweet smile.

"Oh, ha ha." Andy replied sarcastically. She then turned to Hermione, concern immediately replacing annoyance.

"Do I look that bad?" Hermione asked with a grimace.

"I... wouldn't put it that way...?" Andy said in a high-pitch voice. "You just look a little... worse for the wear, is all, dear."

Narcissa rolled her eyes and stood up. "Anything happens, Dro, send Limpy for me immediately. Don't hesitate for a moment, okay?"

"Of course, of course." Andy said faintly, still in slight shock by how pale and battered the younger witch looked.

"Also, don't let her do anything insensible."

"Hey! I'm right here!" Hermione protested.

"Don't do anything insensible then." She repeated directly to the muggleborn as she put her travelling cloak on.

"Um... Cissy?" Andy asked meekly.

"Yes, Dro?"

"What _exactly_ counts as insensible?... you know, to be on the safe side."

Narcissa took a deep sigh. "Anything that involves physical exertion. And no magic. I'm sure between the both of you, you can make further deductions. And I needn't remind you about sleeping outside of the bedrooms...?" She drawled out.

"What's wrong with sleeping outside of the bedrooms?" Hermione asked with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

Narcissa looked around the room fondly, it was filled with comfortable leather chaise lounge's and an odd assortment of old trophies and school photographs. It was the most lived-in room Hermione had been in the fortress, lined with cases full of family heirlooms and memorabilia left behind by previous generations. The wooden panelled walls were barely visible under all the things that had been tacked on the wall, and Hermione had the distinct impression that this intimate room was not intended for formal guests.

"The fortress is very old." Narcissa answered at last. "It is old, and has many memories, and there are bad dreams for those who sleep unwisely." Narcissa gently grabbed her sister's arm and pulled her close to her. "Please do look after her properly, Dro."

The sisters exchanged a silent conversation until Andy smiled gently at her sister. "Of course, Cissy. Of course I'll look after her properly."

Narcissa nodded at her and carefully squeezed Hermione's good shoulder in lieu of a goodbye.

As soon as the youngest Black had closed the door behind her, Andy threw herself on the leather couch and whistled. "Boy you have a lot of explaining to do, Hermione Granger." The older witch then grinned. "But lets start with how you've managed to get _my_ sister, of all people, wrapped around your little finger."

"What?" Hermione exclaimed incredulously, cursing herself as she felt a blush creeping up her neck. "I don't- she's not- what? No. What are you on about?"

"Aha. Going through a denial phase, I see." Andy teased mercilessly.

"It's not a denial phase if I don't know what I'm denying." Hermione rebuked with an eye roll, taking the last swing of the liquid courage Narcissa had given her. "Damn..."

"What's wrong, dear?" Andy said, her brows furrowing with concern.

"Oh, no, nothing, Andy." Hermione said waving her arm casually. "It's just Cissy gave me something for the pain and I've finished it." The older witch raised an eyebrow at the nickname but didn't comment on it.

"Anything I can get you more of?" She asked.

"It's... um... actually scotch, I think." Hermione confessed as she passed her the little vial. Andy laughed quietly to herself and stood up to survey the room.

"Mother," she began explaining, "had one of the most impressive wine and whiskey collections in the country. However," she continued, running her hand on the wooden panelled walls. "She was always paranoid Walburga Black wanted to get her hands on it, so she came into the bad habit of hiding it." Andy started knocking on the wood to see where it sounded hollow. "I can still remember a few of her hideouts, but I'm pretty sure we'll never find all of it." Andy pulled out her wand and made a small cut on the pad of her forefinger and dabbed it on the dark cherry wood. "Aha! I knew it!" She exclaimed as the panel opened up, revealing a crate of whisky bottles. Andy pulled one of the bottles out and closed the panel again. "Only immediate family members can open it up. She might've have disowned me," She said uncorking the bottle, "but blood is a law unto iteslf."

Andy went to grab some glasses from the cabinet at the far end of the room and flopped back on the couch as she poured herself and Hermione a large drab of the brown liquid. "To closeted alcoholics who hoard their stash." She said as a toast. Hermione laughed along with the older witch and they clinked their glasses.

"Now, do for heaven's sake, explain what's going on."

Hermione sighed. "I really don't know where to start." Hermione took a small sip of the strong drink and eased herself in her chair. "I guess it all started in Malfoy Manor. Have we ever told you what happened there?"

"Vaguely." Andy said softly, and Hermione wondered if Bellatrix would've looked this beautiful had she not gone to Azkaban - all full lips and sharp cheekbones and wild, untameable hair with twinkling, energetic eyes. It was well known that Andy was a spitting image of her older sister, but having spent more time with Narcissa, she could see the ghost of Cissy's smile on Andy's lips. "Just the basics, you know - snatchers got to you, realised who you were, took you to the Malfoy's, then Dobby saved you."

"Yes..." Hermione mumbled. "That's very much the abridged version." She took another sip. "They found Godric Gryffindor's sword on us. It was supposed to be in Bellatrix's account in Gringot's. And well... she went mental on us; on me, to be precise."

"Oh merlin..." Andy muttered sorrowfully, looking down at her drink.

"Long story short, she carved something on my arm, and although Fleur did a damned good job at dispelling any immediate risks, I was - and am, I suppose - still cursed." Hermione continued, scratching the back of her neck uncomfortably.

"But wait." The older witch interrupted with a confused frown. "What does Cissy have to do with this? I know you two are doing your research thing but that's as far as I know."

"Well our research... kinda has to do with this." Hermione explained. "In it's simplest form, our question is whether the energy of black magic can be purified and converted to, well, positive energy that doesn't harm. Everyone who came into contact with dark magic for a prolonged period of time during the war is probably suffering some after effects." Andy's eyes widened with fear. "To be fair, I'm probably one of the more extreme cases because the magic is still imbued in me."

"But, didn't you, Ron and Harry carry around Horcrux's for about a year?" Andy asked tentatively.

"Yep... Harry gets some of my symptoms too. Way less often than me, thankfully, and much milder; although he did set Sirius' room on fire once. You should see Ron on a bad night, though. However, his episodes are very rare." Hermione paused. "I confess, I'm most worried about Ginny - she spent an entire year voluntarily pouring her soul to Voldemort and mingling hers with his. Now that he's dead, it's like she's carrying around necrotic energy in her soul."

"But Ginny seems fine." Andy said incredulously, not wanting to believe what Hermione said.

"Oh yes, she's a tough one." Hermione said with a proud smile. "But it's going to catch up with her sooner or later, kinda like it did with me."

"But Cissy is fixing you?"

"You can't... really... fix me." Hermione said uncomfortably. "At least not that we know. Although it is what we're trying to find out."

"Then what _is_ she doing?" Andy asked indignantly.

"Buying me time." Hermione replied calmly. "It's all very tricky and volatile magic and she's the only person in the world who has any idea how it works. I mean, I do too, but purely theoretically - I wouldn't even know where to start if I had to draw my wand and start putting it to practice."

Andy let out a long, drawn out sigh. "Sounds like a question for Prometheus' Palace." She said ruefully.

Hermione frowned. "Prometheus' Palace?"

"I'm sorry - it's an old Slytherin expression." Andy said taking another sip of her drink.

"What does it mean?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Oh, well, it's this mythical castle in some marshes somewhere - it's all very vague, you see -" She said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "Anyway, the legend says that inside the castle live the servants of Prometheus, who have the answer to every question in the world - hence the expression." The older witch paused airily for a moment. "Every curiosity of the wizarding world is gathered in the Palace... as if it were the centre of some sort of illuminating whirlpool."

"Sounds more like a Ravenclaw thing." Hermione said contemplatively.

"True that." Andy replied standing up and cocking her head in concentration. "But Ravenclaws are much wiser than the lot of us, and as such, they are far better at accepting that no answer is the only answer they'll get. It doesn't sit well with a Slytherin to not get what they want; suppose that's why we need the delusion that somewhere out there, there _has_ to be an answer to our questions."

"But there _has_ to be." Hermione posited stubbornly.

Andromeda chuckled. "You would've made a fine Slytherin with that ambition, 'Mione." She said as she took handle of Hermione's wheelchair. "Now, to less lofty topics, has Cissy given you a proper tour of the fortress?"

"Uhh... no, actually." Hermione said surprised. "We always get kinda caught up in our own thing."

"Excellent!" Andy said enthusiastically. "I give way better tours than Cissy anyway."

**Dido, Carthage and Aeneas are a reference to the Aeneid by Virgil, for those who were left wondering. Tried not to spoil (too much) about how that particular romance ended because it is most certainly worth a read. Also, "**_**Que sera, sera"**_** is the old Latin fatalist motto of determinists - those who believe we have no free will because of the timelessness of truth - what will be, will be. Give me a shout if you would like more info on either references :) R&amp;R! **


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"Do you remember that little scar Sirius had right above his left eyebrow?" Andy asked cheerfully as they moved down a narrow corridor, made tighter by all the little decorative tables that were scattered about.

"Oh yeah, like a little triangle, right?" replied Hermione.

"Yeah, that one - well he got it when we were around seven and we were playing auror's versus goblins and he smashed his head right into the corner of that table." Andy said pointing to a little writing desk decorated by a vase with a single rose. "There was blood _everywhere_!" The older witch exclaimed laughing. "You should've seen it: Sirius was screaming, Cissy was screaming, Bella was screaming, Regulus was screaming - we were _all_ screaming; all whilst mother's doilies were being completely splattered with blood and then the chandelier exploded, which of course made us scream even louder. Then Sirius fainted, and Cissa started crying like the world was over because she thought Sirius was dead and Regulus started yelling at Cissy for being a baby at which point all the vases started shattering and Bella started hitting Regulus for making Cissy even more upset."

"Oh wow... what happened?" Hermione asked with a slight hint concern.

"One of the portraits went to get Limpy." Andy said wistfully. "Only time I've ever seen him lose his patience with us."

"Really?" The muggleborn asked surprised. "I cannot imagine Limpy angry."

"Oh, he most certainly was that day. After tending to Sirius, cleaning the mess we made, and putting us in a childproof room with blankets and hot chocolates he gave us one of the sternest talking's to in my life." She said with a chuckle. "Needless to say we never ran indoors after that."

The older witch opened a door and pushed Hermione inside.

"What a view..." Hermione mumbled.

"Thought you'd like it." Andy said with a grin.

They were at the top of one of the fortress' towers. It was a large, marble, circular area that would've been exposed to the elements had it not been for the glass dome ceiling that afforded the viewer a sheltered panoramic view of the coast. The room itself was filled with decadent couches overflowing with pillows, and thick warm rugs which were scattered about all over the immaculate white stone floor. The tower also gave the impression of a Victorian bestiary, for all about there were stuffed magical creatures casually dotted around the furniture.

"Do forgive the questionable hunting ethics of this particular collection - Orion Black was a renowned magizoologist in his day, and this was how they studied beasts back in the 1800's - laid down most of the work for Newton Scamander, though."

"As long as they don't bite..." Hermione mumbled, eying the large murtlap on the coffee table with curiosity.

"Don't worry... I'm about eighty-five percent sure most of them won't." Andy said as she sat down in her favourite armchair next to the full sized kelpie. "Although those grindylows in the jars have always freaked me out."

Both witches settled on comfortably listening to the pitter patter of rain hitting the glass ceiling. It was taking Andy a considerable effort to remind herself that this wasn't her home anymore - that it hadn't been, not for a long time; but the fortress still recognised her blood and responded to her authority, leaving her to wonder if she'd ever left. Had the ancient staircase, that still lead her to the doors she wanted, noticed her absence? Did the rooms, with wardrobes filled with her old dresses, even remember why she'd left?

The portraits were the only tell tale that she didn't belong here anymore. Members long gone of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black gawked at her with either shock or pity. It was when walking the halls, lined with the judging portraits of her ancestors, that Andromeda found herself with a longing to betray: betray her own betrayal, and return to her sister as a Black. But, she thought to herself as the rain picked up, if we betray B., for whom we betrayed A., it does not necessarily follow that we have placated A. The first betrayal is irreparable. It calls forth a chain reaction of further betrayals, each of which takes us farther and farther away from the point of our original betrayal.

"So, what _do_ you think of Cissy?" Andy asked, at last breaking the trance they had fallen into.

"Oh, you know..." Hermione said smiling at the clouds above her, "she's kinda... extraordinary."

"You're not just saying that because she saved your life?" The older witch teased.

"No, no." replied Hermione. "I suppose I understand why one could think that. But no. Ever since first meeting her, I actually began wishing for..." Hermione paused, trying to decipher what it was that she had wished for. "More time. I want more time with her. I'm just so... terribly curious about her."

"Curious, hmm?" said Andy with a cheeky grin. "I'm sure I can help to dispel some of the mystery that is Narcissa Black."

Hermione laughed at the offer. "That feels like cheating, Andy!"

"Aha! And there, my dear, is one of the things you're going to have to learn if you're to woo-"

"Wooing? Who said anything about wooing?"

"Turn of phrase, darling." Andy said appeasingly. "Can I finish my point, now?"

"Yeah, yeah, go on..."

"You should consider redefining cheating to a much narrower concept than what you've understood it to stand for."

"Are you point blank telling me to sacrifice my integrity?" Hermione scoffed.

"You're missing the point." Andy chastised the younger witch. "You see, while people are fairly young, their definitions of words are still malleable so when they meet they have a chance to define together what concepts exactly mean to them. But if they meet when they are older, their dictionaries are more or less complete, and every idea, every expression, almost every word means something different to each of them. This is usually the trouble between people who meet later in life: Yes, you might eagerly listen to the story of her life, and she might be equally as eager to hear the story of yours, and although you have a clear understanding of the logical meaning of the words you exchange, you'll fail to -" Andy flapped her arms dramatically in the air trying to find the right words. "To hear the semantic whispers of the river flowing through each other! Needless to say you two are very different... and unless you're willing to learn her vocabulary, I might as well start compiling a long lexicon of all the misunderstandings you'll have!"

Hermione stared at Andy with raised eyebrows. "That was... deep."

"Cissy isn't the only one allowed to have profound thoughts." Andy said with a smug smile as she settled back into her chair.

"No, she certainly isn't."

"Look," the older witch started again gently. "My point boils down to, if you really want to know Cissy, ask her what words mean to her -" she shrugged, "that way you'll learn how to talk to her. The other stuff, the biographical stuff - anyone can figure that out, all you need to do is start ordering back issues of the Prophet and you can piece together her story. Hell, I can even save you some effort and fill you in on the drivel: favourite fruit - cherries; always port after dinner, not sherry; loathes quidditch; hates a silent room; loves the smell of fresh lavender rubbed onto skin." Andy ticked off each fact with a finger. "That's just trivia anyone can live with, but whether or not you can accept her definition of cheating - that's a serious litmus test."

"That's an interesting hypothesis." Hermione replied thoughtfully, swirling the scotch in her glass. The muggleborn then grinned at Andy in surrender. "I hate it when you might be right."

"I know." Andy teased back. "Although, _of course_, none of this means that I won't fulfil my official duty as older sister to tell you all the embarrassing stories I have of her; complete with photographic evidence, of course."

"No!" Hermione exclaimed, pretending to be shocked. "I _refuse_ to believe that _Narcissa Black_ has _ever_ embarrassed herself!"

"Lemme just find another bottle of scotch, because you are in for a treat!" Andy said triumphantly as she stood up to survey the room. "Now... where did that old hag hide the booze here?" She mumbled to herself. "Think like mother. Think like mother."

Andy then looked at the huge stuffed griffin that stood proudly on the other side of the room. "Wouldn't that be appropriate?" She muttered as she approached the taxidermic beast and prodded it twice with her wand. The previously stilled creature immediately tried clawing her head off and she yelped in surprise. "STUPIFY!" She bellowed, instantly stilling her family's idea of decorative furniture. The slytherin sheathed her wand and pried open the griffin's massive beak, removing one of the bottles that had lain hidden inside. "Trust mother to hide things inside the stuffed animals... Now! Where were we?"

* * *

Narcissa closed the door behind her. A curious routine had developed since the Monday Andy had first agreed to watch over Hermione. The pureblood had the luxurious pleasure of greeting her sister after a lively breakfast with Hermione each morning before work. Then, after a day of vicious haggling in the greasy political market, she got to come home to a house filled with laughter and Hermione telling her all the whirlwind of things she'd discovered that day - from a new magical formula to an old photo of Narcissa's childhood that Andy had no doubt supplied.

It all seemed slightly surreal to her, and she'd taken to stealing a few minutes before leaving the house to press her head against the door and listen to the voice of her sister cracking a joke at Hermione, just to prove to herself that this was real. These were voices she had never dared to hope she would ever get to casually hear in the Fortress, but suddenly, there they were, like the past twenty five years had been a terrible misunderstanding that had never happened. As for Hermione's voice, the rises and falls in her clear intonation of each word served to sooth her worries.

Part of the reason she derived so much pleasure in those stolen moments was the curious feeling of atonement they provided her. Like some wrong was being made right simply by the presence of those two witches in her house.

It was in those moments, however, that her mind had the bad habit of wondering back to the day after Andromeda had left and the silence that had ensued her departure. Bella and her had gone for a walk on the beach, but as they had left the Fortress, Narcissa noticed that her sister's shoes did not match. She had been in a quandary: she wanted to point out the mistake, but was too afraid she would hurt her. So during the two hours they had spent walking the beach together, she had kept her eyes fixed on Bella's feet. It was only then that she had had her first inkling of the repercussions Andy's desertion would entailed, it was also the first time she had ever seen what suffering really looked like.

However, today was a different day - it was Saturday, and Andy could no longer neglect her own responsibilities. After much coaxing, Narcissa had agreed to leave Hermione under Limpy's supervision. The pureblood had yielded, not on the grounds that Hermione's strength seemed to increase daily and her temperature was steadily becoming less hypothermic, but because unbeknown to her, Narcissa was not really leaving the fortress.

It was the twenty fifth of April; the anniversary of Lucius' death.

Dressed in black lace from head to toe, Hermione had been polite enough not to enquire why Narcissa was in formal funeral garb. After ensuring that the muggleborn was settled in the library, Narcissa had made that daunting trip down to the crypts in the bowels of the Fortress. The staircase made no accommodations for a trip to the mausoleum, forcing the visitor to endure the long walk down, deeper and deeper into the sea where the silence grew as the light dimmed.

It was amidst that deathly silence that Narcissa was reminded of the speech Lucius had given after his return from Azkaban. There had been a banquet and everyone, from the highest to the lowest ranks of the Dark Lord's army, was there - almost like old times. Although she had completely forgotten what he had said, she could still hear his quavering voice. She thought about how ministry officials had arrested him, a free pureblood man, in his own house, held him for weeks somewhere on that rock, sucked on his soul; then packed him off to the Ministry, ordered him to have a bath and shave, to change into clean silk robes, sit at a table opposite the Dark Lord, and forced him to beg for mercy.

He had returned, humiliated, to address his humiliated family. He was so humiliated he could not even speak. Narcissa would never forget those awful pauses in the middle of his sentences. Was he that exhausted? Ill? Had they cursed him? Or was it only despair? If nothing was to remain of Lucius, then at least those awful long pauses when he seemed unable to breath, when he gasped for air before a whole room of Death Eaters, at least those pauses would remain. Those pauses contained all the horror that had befallen their family.

Narcissa reached the bottom of the staircase, her heart contracting painfully as she caught sight of all the busts of her family members. The Fortress's crypts did not contain the bones of any Black family member, instead, a marble sculpture of each deceased member was erected and placed in it's own little shrine. Lucius, as her husband, got his own bust next to where hers would be upon her death.

Staring at all those static people, Narcissa felt the terrible urge to turn around - to sod this grotesquely morbid tradition - and go back, back to Hermione and the warmth of the library where the fire cackled and their hypotheses were coloured by the mellow music on the radio.

The pureblood clutched her chest in terror as she approached the statue of her mother. Druella Black had been immortalised in all her glorious opulence, and as her mother stared blankly back at her in that white stone, Narcissa couldn't help but feel that she had none of Hermione's courage. No, she was like Lucius, who made a thirty-second pause in the middle of a sentence; she was like her dead husband, who stuttered, gasped for air, could not speak.

With trembling hands she started lighting the candles that rested at the base of each bust.

Narcissa reached the bust of her grandmother and found herself unable to hold back the tears back any longer. The witch had been a cruel and bitter old woman; the first to have raised the cruciatus against her. Why was she honouring this foul hag? - especially when it made no difference to the dead whether they received rich gifts for the grave; no, this was all just empty ostentation on the part of the living. But then Narcissa reached her sister.

Her wand was shaking too much to light the candle, and as she angrily wiped away her tears she realised she wasn't crying out grief anymore. What was sobbing, in fact, was the naïve idealism of her love: she was trying to banish all the contradictions between who she knew these people to be, and who they actually were. Love for Narcissa meant a longing to put herself at the mercy of her loved one. But she who gives herself up like a prisoner of war must give up her weapons as well. And deprived in advance of defence against a possible blow, she cannot help wondering when the blow will fall. That is why for Narcissa, love meant the constant expectation of a blow.

"Cissy..." She heard a voice call out for her sorrowfully.

Narcissa whipped round to see Hermione standing at the base of the stairs. The younger witch walked next to her and put a gentle hand on the crook of her back. The careful touch was the final blow in disarming Narcissa, and the pureblood immediately crashed down to the ground, her dress creating an ocean of black around her upon which her tears fell on unapologetically.

"Oh, Cissy..." Hermione whispered mournfully as she pulled the slytherin into her embrace.

When Narcissa's sobs softened, Hermione let go of the older witch and slowly lifted her black veil. The muggleborn wiped the tearful tracks that ran down Narcissa's face and softly kissed her where the tears had marred her cheeks.

"You still love them..." Hermione stated softly. "Who they used to be."

Narcissa closed her eyes, unable to confess her love for the savages that had destroyed everything they had touched whilst facing Hermione. But the muggleborn was right. The Bellatrix that had tortured Hermione before her very eyes was not _her_ Bella. So she nodded her admission.

"Muggles," Hermione started, and Narcissa leaned on the younger witch. "They make movies out of zombies." The pureblood wished she would stop crying. "Zombies are kind of like inferi, and movies... well they're kinda like stories... Anyway, in these stories, there's always this one really annoying character whose dad or fiancée or something is turning into a zombie. It takes a while to fully turn into a zombie in muggle lore, you see. But these characters, they always refuse to kill the monster because they love them and they still think that deep down they're still in there somewhere. And it's always in that moment when everyone watching the story unfold wants to throw something at them because we all know they're gonners. They've died and gone to zombieland and there's no coming back from there. But the poor fools still think they can save them. Cissy..." Hermione said, pulling her chin up to face her and meeting those startling blue eyes. "Cissy, you're anything but a fool. He changed. They all changed. Changed to very soul, and it's horrible because you knew it was happening. But these people you're still mourning for, they died long before their death. You know this, Cissy. You know this as well as I do. You've got to put them to rest because there's no cure for someone who decided to go that far down dark."

She's right, Narcissa thought despairingly, she's right. At long last, the pureblood rubbed her eyes and nodded.

"C'mon, let's get you out of here then." Hermione said gently.

**R&amp;R. **


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The veil was the first thing to come off. Then the heels were kicked off.

A muffled silence reigned, only broken at times by a log breaking in the fireplace. The witches sat purposely opposite each other, as if Narcissa's silent grief was insular and incommunicable. They were on the floor, being stared at openly by the portraits that hung on the walls who were all clamouring over each other to get a better view. The portraits marvelled at them with the most terrible of morbid curiosities, for the two women present wore the countenance, if not the trappings, of some unceasing grief in whose unhealing hearts the sight of each other caused the old wounds to bleed afresh.

They were on the floor because the pureblood refused to be moved any closer to the imposing bed in the middle of the room. Instead she eyed it with the look of distaste she usually reserved for a bad vintage of wine.

At last she spoke. "Lucius and I slept in the same bed until the very end."

Hermione looked at her curiously, not quite understanding what the older witch was trying to convey.

"Believe me when I say I would have much rather have slept by myself, but!-" a high pitch sigh, "the marriage bed was still the symbol of the marriage bond, and symbols, as I was taught, are inviolable."

Observing the proud pureblood with her fine dress ruined with creases sitting cross-legged on the floor, it occurred to Hermione that here was true and faithful repentance; not clamorous for pardon but grateful for punishment. And yet, even when reduced to the floor with no one but a muggleborn for company, Narcissa Black was every inch the regal lady she had been bred to be. Maybe, Hermione considered, maybe all person tragically great was made so through a certain morbidness - as if all mortal greatness was nothing but disease.

Narcissa looked down, refusing to show the girl in front of her the shame in her eyes. "Each time someone tells me that they admire the woman in me, I have the distinct impression of having lied all my life."

Hermione slumped her shoulders as her heart contracted painfully, learning that there was nothing heavier than compassion. Not even her own pain weighed so heavy as the pain she felt with Cissy, for Cissy, a pain intensified by the imagination and prolonged by a hundred echoes. So with eyes tightly shut, as if she were about to cry or sing, she stammered her reply "I-I think..." she started, "that you are a much better person than you give yourself credit for. One of the best, in fact, that I've ever met."

"Oh, but haven't you heard what all your friends say, Miss Granger? I have no soul."

"Bollocks." Hermione replied softly. "And you know it."

"You don't understand."

"Then enlighten me."

Narcissa stood up in one fluid motion releasing her black hair from it's bun with one flick of the wrist and ran her hand through it. "You don't understand." She repeated, the threat of hysteria colouring her tone. "But maybe... maybe one day I will tell you." She finished with a sigh. "I need to get out of this thing."

The pureblood disappeared into her closet, reappearing only moments later wearing deep purple worsted wool trousers and a thick black cashmere jumper.

"Can we do something normal?" She asked the muggleborn, as if entrusting Hermione with her sanity.

"Of course." Replied Hermione. "Of course." The younger witch stood up and racked her brains for something normal to do after such a surreal morning. "How about I help you go through all those old cases you brought the other day - you know, for your tribunal reform - you always help me with my work, it's about time I help you with yours."

Narcissa smiled brightly at the suggestion and Hermione almost punched the air in triumph. But the smile was not long lived for the pureblood frowned after a few seconds.

"Are you sure?" She asked the muggleborn with what seemed concern. "They're um..." Narcissa winced at the stutter. "Well, um... most of the cases - they're my family's and our old associates'."

Hermione considered the implications for a moment, but she had made up her mind. "Just tell me what I'm looking for."

The bright smile on Narcissa's lips returned and Hermione knew she would gladly review even Tom Riddle's court case if it meant getting the pureblood to smile like that.

"Lets go to the library then." Cissy said contently as she picked up a few books on her nightstand and they moved towards the staircase. "I'm planning major reforms for the Wizengamot."

"You don't pick easy targets, do you?" Hermione said mirthfully.

"A concerning habit we share." She replied with a raised eyebrow.

"Touché."

Finally settling down in their usual chairs Hermione eyed the stacks of parchment tied with plum coloured ribbons with open curiosity.

"How much do you know about the Wizengamot?" Asked the older the witch.

"Not that much, to be honest." Hermione confessed. "I did some basic reading years ago when Harry was being tried for violating the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, but I haven't had much reason after that."

Narcissa snickered. "I remember that one. One of the most shambled trials since Sirius'." She looked thoughtfully at Hermione. "But that's the point. The Wizengamot has been active since, at least, 1544 - and in all that time, even when the Ministry was established in 1707, their approach to the law remains almost the same. The wizarding world, thankfully, moves at much slower a pace than the muggle one, but this is frankly an embarrassment. The mistakes this system has made... are simply unforgivable."

"So what exactly do you want to reform?" Asked Hermione.

"Everything - from the nomination process to establishing Wizarding rights. The law should be applied equally, everyone should have the right to _habeas corpus_, there should be no imprisonment without due process, and the law should be easily accessible - fair, basically." Narcissa sighed. "And then there's Azkaban..."

"The definition of a cruel and unusual punishment." Hermione supplied.

"Exactly. We have no judicial independence or neutrality. The Wizengamot is in the hands of whoever is ruling and the members have no impartiality. Of course, that's not all their fault - they have no security of tenure, as we saw with Dumbledore. Their salaries aren't protected, and the recruitment process is abhorrently corrupt."

Hermione was getting excited, she hadn't felt this rush of excitement since planning the establishment of S.P.E.W. It was the sort of feeling you get when you know you're doing the right thing, and it had been a long time since Hermione had this thrill.

"Right now, I'm just going through all these old cases to gather evidence of malpractice. We have to start by making note of all the violations of the rule of law. Any questions?"

Hermione slumped back in her chair and looked at the older witch open curiosity, as if trying to figure her out. "This is going to sound horribly crass, I know, but -"

"I have a feeling I know what you're going to ask."

The muggleborn blushed. "It's just... - what do you get out of this? I mean, it's no secret that your family has benefitted from the Wizengamot's corruption."

Narcissa chuckled darkly. "_Au contraire_, Miss Granger. You should know better having had close acquaintance with my cousin Sirius. Think about it," she invited the younger witch. "The first Gryffindor in the family, who unapologetically turned his back on us - a blood traitor, by definition - basically adopted by the Potter's, and yet," she paused for effect, "...when it came to pointing a finger as to who would be capable of betraying the Potter's, naturally and unquestionably that finger landed on a Black."

Hermione felt a terrible shame rumble in the pit of her stomach, but Narcissa continued. "Dumbledore moved earth and sky to get Snape acquitted and yet that same Dumbledore, infamous for his second chances, refused to testify on Sirius' behalf. Oh no, because no matter all the choices Sirius had made or with whom he had pledged his loyalties, at the end of the day, he was still a haughty Black who couldn't be trusted. Dumbledore preferred to defend one of the highest ranking Death Eaters over Sirius who had never had _anything_ to do with the Dark Lord."

Narcissa started stacking case after case in front of Hermione. "And here - a small sample of all the cases where a Slytherin committed the same crime someone from one of the other houses did. Care to guess who got the considerably harsher sentence?" The older witch asked as she rubbed her eyes tiredly. Narcissa looked at Hermione with a sad smile. "Has it ever occurred to you, Miss Granger, that the reason all the old Slytherin pureblood families were the first to sign up to the Dark Lord's revolution was because we had already been ostracised on account of our surname? Think about it this way, a naive eleven year old who gets sorted into Slytherin is immediately hated by the entire school; and yet in the battle of Hogwarts, you asked him to fight for you. Your side purports to be the good side, and yet, for the good side, you can be incredibly cruel."

The pureblood sighed again and passed Hermione a case file. "By no means am I defending the Dark Lord, or the actions that were done in his name; but if you want to help me, you have to understand that cruelty goes both ways."

Hermione opened the case file and saw Sirius' name carefully typed out at the top.

"Thank you." Hermione offered in way of a reply.

The pureblood cocked her head. "For what?"

"The opportunity to set something right."

The two witches shared an apologetic smile. "My pleasure." Replied Narcissa.

**Sorry it's a bit on the shorter side. Am currently quite ill but I thought I should give y'all an update, despite the length. Btw, most of the factual info on the Winzengamot is from Harry Potter wiki, so all the dates and stuff are canon. R&amp;R!**


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Narcissa laid her hand gently on Hermione's forehead, checking her temperature. If she had to quantify it, the younger witch's body was about thirty two degrees - five degrees less than normal, but as good as it was ever going to get.

"So, how am I doing?" Asked Hermione once the pureblood removed her hand from her head.

"You're good to go." She replied, regretting the words as soon they left her mouth; she almost smacked herself in the head - the ambiguous invitation that had allowed the muggleborn to stay with her for an indefinite amount of time had been officially revoked and now there could be no pretending that Hermione didn't belong with her. "I'm sure Mr. Potter will be relieved to see you again."

"Knowing Harry, he's probably made an elaborate story where I've runaway with Hippocrates." Hermione said trying to lighten the mood, except the words came out more like a wish than a joke.

"I imagine Mr. Potter's imagination is a force to be reckoned with."

"That's putting it mildly." Hermione said with a fond smile. "He always gets Ron worked up and it's up to me to get them to see sense before they go off gallivanting."

"So this is how the Golden Trio foiled all of the Dark Lord's greatest plans?" Narcissa asked smiling, despite herself.

"There is method to this madness, I assure you. Although, on reflection, I'm sure there was a better way of defeating Riddle... one that didn't include starving in a tent for months on end doing nothing but becoming acquainted with what's left of Britain's wilderness while a horcrux sucked on our souls... just thinking about it makes me hungry again."

"Then lets delay breakfast no longer." Narcissa said standing up, fully aware that she was trying to postpone the inevitable.

"But bags... and packing... and all that." Hermione said wistfully.

"Nonsense. Limpy will do all that while we eat."

"You do remember you're talking to the founder of S.P.E.W. here, right?" The muggleborn said with a teasing smile.

"A founder that lost all her moral high ground the moment she kept a house elf in her house." Narcissa bit back as they walked down the stairs.

"Trust me! - I have tried to give that elf everything from clothes to an employment contract, even a pension scheme! But he _just_. _won't_. _budge_." Hermione huffed.

"Then let that be a lesson to you that you can't force things to be free." Narcissa said with a shrug as she sat at the head of the long mahogany dining table and folded a white napkin on her lap.

"It's not forcing-"

"Really?" Narcissa asked skeptically with an indulging smile as she poured herself a cup of tea and waited for the food to appear on her plate. "So what verb would you use to describe the action of persistently coercing elves to join your ideology by whatever means necessary?"

Hermione winced at the accusation. "That's not what I'm doing! I'm- I'm liberating them. Dobby, for example-"

"Dobby is not an example." The pureblood cut in. "Dobby was an extraordinary creature, an anomaly amongst his kind. Your ideology is even more misguided if you're basing this entirely on the evidence of one house elf." Narcissa took a small sip from her china cup and gave Hermione a devilish smile. "Come now, Miss Granger, you purport yourself to be a... scientist, I believe is the term you use, - I expected better logic from you."

"Oh, no, no, no." Hermione said in an equally daring tone just as the toast appeared on the table. "I am not going to let you win that easily."

A cheshire cat smile spread on Narcissa's lips. "By all means, Miss Granger, do try to defend your so very... admirable position." She challenged coyly as she spread butter on her toast. "I'm just dying to become a devotee of yours."

Hermione felt her cheeks blush; had she been a casual observer of the verbal spar that was happening over the eggs Benedict, she would've been able to admit that the tone of the conversation was most certainly over-compensating for those five centigrades of temperature she was missing. "Fine then. Freedom, liberty - they're the most important concepts we have." She posited bravely. "This is because choice is necessary in order to morally blame or praise agents for their actions."

Valiantly the Gryffindor held on to her train of thought even as the pureblood was staring at her with an intensity in her bright blue eyes that was overwhelming. It almost amused her; she had never imagined she would find defending elvish rights a Herculean task, but under Narcissa's burning gaze coherence seemed to elude her. "B-but if a house elf... is compelled to follow his master's commands... then that house elf has no responsibility over his actions." She took a steading breath. "Blaming or praising him for something would be akin to saying that it was wrong or good for salt to dissolve in water. And for goodness sake," she huffed - it really was impossible to think with Narcissa looking like the dictionary definition of coquettish, "I cannot be the only person who sees that the implications of this are monumental: our moral feelings of sympathy and other such sentiments towards each other are what makes us human, they separate us from the mechanical side of nature and provide us with our humanity. If we have to explain away the feeling of gratitude we have towards a house elf then we are denying ourselves our own humanity. Thus, to deny house elves freedom we are unwittingly rendering our own social life incoherent." Hermione tore through her speech in one mouthful, desperate to have respite from having to form thoughts into words.

Narcissa leaned back in her chair as she studied the proud posture of the Gryffindor next to her. She looked stunning in that borrowed green jumper, stunning the way a natural catastrophe was stunning as it stood alone amongst its wreck.

"Limpy." The pureblood called out at last.

The little house elf happily popped next to Narcissa. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Limpy, would you like your freedom?" She asked him gently.

The house elf's face fell to horror and pure, undiluted hysteria coloured his voice. "Does Mistress not want Limpy anymore? What has Limpy done?!"

"None of that, Limpy." Narcissa said soothingly as big fat tears started rolling down the elf's face onto his white dress. "It's just a question - what do you want?"

"Limpy wishes to serve Mistress forever." He said hurriedly. "Limpy cannot imagine a life without Mistress. Limpy does not want a life without Mistress."

"Then forget I ever mentioned anything." She said gently. "Have you packed Miss Granger's clothes and potions?"

"Of course, Mistress. And the books." He said wiping his tears and nodding profusely.

"Then that would be all for the moment, Limpy. Thank you."

The house elf gave her a watery smile and disapareted out of the room.

"You might be right in cold, premise form, theory; but in practice, what would really render our social life as incoherent, would be to force clothes on him."

"But he's obviously not autonomous!" The muggleborn argued back. "If he were in his full rational faculties, and not brainwashed, then he would want to be free."

Narcissa scoffed at this. "Dear Merlin, Hermione, do you realise what you're saying? You're equating freedom with some ethereal 'higher self' which is 'true' and 'rational', and not only that - you're only allowing for your definition of rational. You are defining freedom for house elves instead of allowing them to decide what they want. Isn't autonomy supposed to be being able to act on your own values, and _only_ following other's values, if you have freely accepted them for yourself? Forcing elves to be free is its own form of tyranny."

"I just don't see how subservience can be rational." Hermione said defensively as she tucked into her porridge.

"You just have to accept that there isn't only one way of living that is rational for everyone." Narcissa said thoughtfully as she sprinkled pomegranates over her yogurt. "Every house elf I have ever met has wanted to be a house elf; granted, barring Dobby." The pureblood shrugged again. "But didn't a muggle once say that obedience to a law one prescribes to oneself is what freedom truly is?"

"But come on..." Hermione persisted. "Don't you have a gut feeling, like in your heart of hearts, that there's something wrong about this whole arrangement?"

Narcissa smiled indulgently at Hermione. "You really are extraordinary, Miss Granger."

"I'm going to take that as a 'no', then?"

The pureblood laughed softly. "Yes, it's a 'no' from me. His life's meaning is to serve. Is that a life I would want for myself? Of course not. Is it a life I would wish on anyone? Also not. But that _is_ the meaning of _his_ life, therefore it is not my place to judge him or take it away from him." The pureblood paused to give Hermione a fond smile. "If it's any consolation, I do see where you're coming from, and I have to say, your kindness is as exceptional as it is misguided."

"I'm going to focus on the compliment there." Hermione said cheekily.

"By all means." Narcissa replied thoughtfully. "Kindness is among the rarest virtues these days."

"Maybe you're just consorting with the wrong type of crowd." Hermione suggested in a tone that muddled levity with concern.

Narcissa smiled ruefully at the suggestion. "Oh, Miss Granger, if there is one thing for sure, it's that I've always consorted with the wrong type of crowd." A dark laugh escaped the pureblood's lips and her tone turned molten heavy. "And you'd do best to remember that it was by no means an accident, Hermione."

And there was that gaze again; the one that made Narcissa look like a high stakes dare to lose herself in a slow, heavenly death if only... if only.

They remained silent - both lost in an impasse of indecision until the handsome longcase clock in the corner chimed ten o'clock, snatching away from them the dance floor of impulsiveness they were flirting with.

"I should get going." Hermione said reluctantly. "I've intruded long enough."

"You haven't intruded for a second." The older witch replied. "But I suppose I shouldn't keep you from your friends any longer. I'm sure they're missing you."

The two witches stood up and unwillingly made their way back up to Narcissa's room. Laying on the low bench at the foot of the bed was a white duffel bag and a leather satchel. Narcissa opened the satchel and inspected the contents until they met her approval.

"All the potions you'll need for the next few weeks are in here. I've included instructions but please, don't hesitate to call me if you'd like any help." The pureblood offered as Hermione swung the duffel bag over her good shoulder. "Really, it would be no trouble."

"I'll keep that in mind." Replied Hermione with a thankful smile. "Oh damn, I'm still wearing your jumper - here, let me just take it off."

"Keep it, keep it." Narcissa insisted. "You can give it to me some other time."

"Thank you." Hermione said earnestly. "For everything."

"Anytime, Miss Granger."

The muggleborn stepped into the fireplace and took a pinch of the floo powder Narcissa offered her.

"Don't forget to make Mr. Potter RSVP for the ball." Narcissa said with a cocky smile.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The things I do for you..." They shared one last smile and Hermione threw the powder at her feet, immediately engulfing herself in flames. "Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

Narcissa disappeared in front of her as other fireplaces zoomed around her and it was barely a lungful later that she was spat out in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

"Blimey, Hermione. We thought you'd been kidnapped." Ron said as Harry and Ginny sat frozen in their seats around the table laden with breakfast food.

"Didn't you get a letter that I'd be gone for a while?" She asked setting her bags on the floor and dusting her jeans off.

"Well yeah..." Replied Ron. "But it just seemed a bit fishy, is all."

"See! I was right." Ginny said triumphantly. "Hand over the galleons boys."

"You thought I was kidnapped and you made bets?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"I always knew you were fine." Ginny explained as she pocketed her winnings. "I have a sixth sense for these things. These two drama queens on the other hand... almost called up the whole D.A. to track you down when that house elf came to get some of your stuff."

"That would be Limpy..." Hermione elaborated lightly, sitting herself next to Harry and stealing a bite of his toast.

"So what did you do with that... guy... that meant you had to take off and leave just like that?" Ron asked quizzically.

"It was an... experiment, of sorts." Hermione explained. "Required constant observation. It was just more practical to stay over. Also gave us time to mull over some important questions." She provided vaguely as she poured herself a cup of tea.

"What sort of questions?" Harry asked with his brows furrowed with confusion, his breakfast forgotten completely.

"Oh you know... questioning our everyday assumptions that are filled with contradictions..."

"Sounds like you're having a quarter life crisis with all those existential questions." Ginny teased.

"I think you may be right." Hermione chuckled. "I'm not quite sure of anything anymore."

"Well the way I see it," Ron said, back to wolfing down his peas, "if you ever feel like you're slipping into a dark, murky world of an existential crisis - go take a dump. That'll put everything into context."

"Insightful as always, Ronald." Hermione retorted sarcastically as her other two friends sniggered at the exchange. "I think I should unpack."

"Oh, by the way - these came for you." Harry said pulling out a small pile of letters from a drawer. "That fancy one came just a few minutes before you got here. I got one too. I think it's for that ball thing they're always trying to get us to go to."

Hermione took the letters, running her fingers over the white elegant envelope that had her name written in Narcissa's careful script.

"Yeah, I think it probably is." She said wistfully, tucking them into her duffel bag. "I'll be in the library," she added as she made for the door, "just so you know I haven't been kidnapped."

"Safety isn't a laughing matter." Ginny called back mirthfully.

Hermione trudged up to her barren room and sat on the small bed. Alone at last, she thought to herself. But the exclamation felt hollow in her empty room, and all of a sudden she realised that the silence that reigned around her had become an unwanted companion. This was ridiculous, she thought, she'd been alone her whole life - solitude her haven. This was normal. This was _her_ normal.

Hermione pulled out the invitation from her bag and her eyes widened in shock as realisation dawned on her. She loved her. She loved Narcissa. And until she had loved Narcissa she had never minded being alone.

**R&amp;R.**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

A party like this required meticulous attention. From making sure the house elves left the house spotless, all the way to catching light fairies to illuminate the ballroom. Charles McLaggen was not a man intended for such activities. He was more of an… enjoyer of parties, rather than a host. No, no, that was his wife. His dead wife. She always knew which champagne to order and how to haggle with the caterers. He was completely lost when it came to choosing the correct musical entertainment, and don't even get him started on which cravat to wear on formal occasions.

His talents lay with a good nogtail hunt with Tiberius. Many a future minister had accompanied him and his brother to their estate in Norfolk for a jolly good old hunting trip. Cormac had taken after him in that respect, ever since becoming great friends with Bertie Higgs, formerly Rufus Scrimgeour's assistant, now the head of the Department of Intoxicating Substances, during a hunt in his seventh year at Hogwarts.

Cormac was doing well for himself these days. Very well. He had kept in touch with Blaise Zabini and Melinda Bobbin from the Slug Club, and after a few high risk investments that he had been reticent to lend his son, the young trio were quickly becoming industry leaders in the field of mass production of previously rare potioneering such as wolfsbane; a niche that was sorely needed after the mess of the war.

It was with great fondness that Charles had watched his son grow up, even if it had meant seeing him more in the papers than in person. However, the degree of separation between them started quickly fading after his son's company's first stock review. After that he had noticed that he was increasingly running into his son during the merry-go-round of social engagements - and with his heart full of pride, he realised that his son had made it in the club on his own merits.

Ah… the club, Charles thought wistfully as he ushered one of the house elves to expand the broom cupboard and clean the fireplaces. If anybody asked him, it was more like a game you need to get tagged to play in - the ultimate form of competition and natural selection played in waistcoats and high heels. Through generations, the club had been the father of all things, the source of the most potent ideas, inventions, institutions and states. And if the last century had taught him anything, it was that peace was an unstable equilibrium among its members; which was why he really, _really_ needed that elf to get rid of that bouquet of chrysanthemums and start decorating the room with the white carnations he had ordered and were waiting in the drawing room.

All the important people were coming today, so it was imperative he put on a good show; especially after that little indiscretion the Prophet had caught him with that other witch. It had all been a terrible misunderstanding. Yes, his hand had been up her skirt. And yes, she had been about a decade or two younger than him. But they were just having a laugh. Nothing serious. No need to blast the affair all over page three. He had a weakness for beautiful women - who could blame him? And didn't they realise they were making it terribly difficult for him to make his advances on Narcissa Black? Honestly, there was no respect for the higher classes anymore - as if Abraxas Malfoy ever had to put up with this nonsense.

Charles re-entered the ballroom and directed the musicians to where they would be playing for the night. He ran his hand through his golden locks, wondering how his wife had ever made this look easy - he needed some wine, now. As he was about to reach for a silver goblet the doorbell rang, and he sent one last desperate prayer hoping that he had picked the right champagne before he went to greet his first guests. What a birthday indeed.

As the ballroom filled up, it was in increasingly dazzling manners that the guests for Charles McLaggen's birthday party arrived. Some chose to make their entrance by not so legally tampering with the floo network to create a rainbow of colours in the flames as they burst out. Others chose to show off by arriving atop some fantastical creature that tended to terrify the poor house elf who was playing valet.

Narcissa was aching to roll her eyes at the extravagances; the flamboyant entrances denoted a despicable insecurity on behalf of the invitees - compensating grotesquely as they tried to hide the shallowness of their station with an expensive trick. The rules of simplicity are those of taste, and as Narcissa looked around her, her sight landing on Charles McLaggen himself, she couldn't help but think that a man could be no more truly wretched than he whose mind was only a mirror of his body; whose soul could fly no high than his neck-tie.

And yet, she would dance with him. And laugh with him. And lay her head on his shoulder as he pressed her closer to him when the lights dimmed and the music mellowed out and the sound of discreet cameras shuttered around them. She would inhale his aftershave as he whispered how glad he was that she had come. She would feel his hand trailing the arches of her back as he purred on about how beautiful she looked. She would be silent, almost stoic, as their intimate dance was recorded by every tabloid paper. They would be close enough to feel each other's breathing press against the other's chest, but her attention would be lost to the white carnations and his would be lost to the temptation of asking her to go with him to somewhere private.

Narcissa downed a flute of champagne in one go, immediately placing the glass back on one of the floating trays and picking another glass in the process. The second glass didn't last much longer than the first, and she discretely looked around the full ball room wondering where he hid the good stuff.

"It's going to take us five hours to get drunk on this monkey's piss." Violetta stated as she appeared next to her.

"Does that mean we're going to have to be here for another five hours?" Narcissa drawled out sarcastically and the two witches shared an amused smile.

"I must say, Cissy, that dress of yours really is quite spectacular." Violetta gushed.

"This old thing?" Narcissa asked casually.

"No need to be modest, Cissy." The older witch said teasingly. "You look splendid, and I for one, think Charles is blind if he hasn't fallen for you already."

"I really hope he hasn't - it's such a clumsy affair to get them back to their feet."

"I'm sorry," Violetta said, not sounding apologetic at all. "I forgot you're still pretending you and Charles aren't a match made in heaven."

"Don't be silly, Vi." Narcissa said sweetly. "I'm just not looking for those sorts of thrills anymore. I'm too old for that sort of nonsense."

"Too old?" Vi said incredulously. "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You're by far the most stunning witch in this room. It's a damn shame you're alone, Cissy - someone as beautiful as yourself shouldn't have to be."

"You're too kind, Vi." Replied Narcissa as she picked up her third glass of champagne.

"Not at all. I've been saying this for years - you two are a perfect match, and before you saying anything else, I know your mother would've agreed with me."

Narcissa almost slapped the older witch on the head. Hadn't _anybody_ learnt that her mother's approval didn't tend to be a good sign?

"I couldn't possibly understand what fault you could find in a man like him…" Vi cooed. "I mean, he's just so handsome."

_So are a thousand others_, Narcissa thought to herself.

"And rich."

_So am I._

"He has one of the few last good surname's."

_Mine's better._

"Have I mention he's rich?"

"Yes, Vi." Narcissa replied, tired of playing along with the game that Charles had obviously put Violetta up to. "However, I am not going to marry a man just because he's rich."

"Oh, but don't you know that a man being rich is like a girl being pretty?" Violetta asked enthusiastically. "You might not marry a girl just because she's pretty, but my goodness, doesn't it help?"

Violetta had a good look at her friend and wondered why she seemed so unimpressed with the prospect of such an advantageous courtship with McLaggen. "Why are you so reticent?" She asked suspiciously, then her eyes widened as a trickle of possibilities flooded into her mind. "Narcissa Black, I am about to ask you a most serious question and I need you to look me in the eyes and answer me with complete and utter honesty."

Narcissa raised a surprised eyebrow at Violetta. "Go on."

"Narcissa… is there, is there someone else?"

The younger witch suddenly felt dizzy from all the champagne and begged for this god awful nightmare of a conversation to be over. "Someone else?" She asked back, feigning ignorance.

"Yes, yes - that's caught your fancy, and with whom you wish to pursue a relationship with." Violetta expanded with little disguised exasperation.

Narcissa fell back into the cool waters of her mind, painting a honest smile on her lips as she prepared to… lie? This wasn't a lie. "No." She said resolutely. "I'm just… not looking for anyone. I've had enough commitment for one lifetime." It was Narcissa's turn to look at her friend with suspicion. "Why are you so intent in getting me and Charles together."

"Lets just say I had a long chat with someone at that party you didn't come to last week, and well…" Vi grinned and leaned closer to her friend, whispering conspicuously. "He's absolutely in love with you."

"Really?" Narcissa drawled out sarcastically again. "And that's why he's getting with every woman he can get his hands on?"

"Oh, it's all a faff!" Vi chortled. "You know how boys are - he's doing it all to make you jealous, and golly, I bet it's working,:

Narcissa took a deep calming breath. If Violetta kept prattling on about this nonsense there would be no power on this earth that could stop her from stunning the silly witch into the next decade.

"Oh, do dance with him!" Urged the older witch. "Just give him a chance - it's his birthday!"

"Fine." Narcissa conceded as politely as she could - anything to please stop her talking.

The pureblood finished what remained in her flute of champagne and slowly glided towards the general direction of Charles McLaggen. All around her excited voices buzzed enthusiastically; negotiations and plans thriving in the elite atmosphere. This was the sort of party where much of the pleasure to be derived depended on the general effect of the enjoyers. But it was just a tad too big for Narcissa's taste. She was a sucker for swell, intimate, black tie parties; but in inviting half the senior ministry, Charles had forgone intimacy for revelry. That was why she had gone for such a purposely stunning dress - if she could not pump up a look of mirth, she would at least wear the semblance of it in her dress.

"Cissy, darling!" Charles called out to her, excusing himself from the little group that surrounded him.

"Charles! What a wonderful party!" Narcissa said in lieu of a greeting as he kissed her on the cheek and a camera shutter went of.

"What are you drinking?" He asked her, stopping a floating tray that was passing by.

"Oh, I think I've had more than enough!" Replied Narcissa, laughing gently.

"Nonsense, nonsense!" Charles said dismissively, handing her another flute of champagne.

"My, my, Mr McLaggen! One would dare to think you're trying to get me inebriated." She said, faking shock.

"I do seem to remember it was you who introduced me to the catchphrase '_it's too early to be sober_', Miss Black." He retorted with what Narcissa suspected was his most charming smile.

"We're not sixteen anymore, Charles." She replied with the slightest hint of fondness.

"We'll always be sixteen at heart." He said clinking his glass with hers. "Come now, Cissy. You can't deny me a dance on my birthday." He pulled her gently onto the dance floor, their steps naturally synching to the fast pace of the violins. "Wanna make front page news tomorrow?" He asked her with a brazen grin.

"Depends the reason." She replied coldly, very aware she was trapped in the rhythmic spinning of the dance floor.

"All good reasons, I promise." He whispered as he kissed her and with cold horror Narcissa heard every single camera in the room immortalise the moment in a gluttonous wave of clicks and shutters.

**R&amp;R. **


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

She could deny it no longer, the floor of a toilet cubicle was her '_padam… padam… padam'._

In her almost forty years of life Narcissa Black had become acquainted with more bathroom interiors than her dignity allowed her to admit.

However, there was something to be said about the knife sharp clarity that was only accessible through that magical combination of exhaustion, drunkenness, and the peripeteia of going from a black tie party to a toilet floor. The silence probably had a lot to do with it. After hours of incessant chatter and considerably loud music, that muffled silence in a bathroom felt like a cold shower on a sweltering hot July night while the distant responsibility of the party was but a rumble that could claim no right to her while she found asylum in the bathroom.

'_Padam… padam… padam_" went the song, until it drove Édif Piaf mad.

It was a strange irony (if it could even be called irony), that it was only when locked in a lavatory and slumped on the floors, nicked bottle of wine et al, that Narcissa felt so absolutely free her very existence felt like an act of rebellion. The fact she could sit there, refusing to come back out to the mingling and the stabbing, was a testament to the fact she _could_ walk away from the party all together, if only she dared.

In those toilets, the absurdity of her life, was so hilarious, in fact, she could barely manage not to spill the wine from her giggles. That was what was hidden in the bathroom; the secret all that dancing and music and pretty velvet suits where trying to hide: it was all bollocks.

Take Charles McLaggen, for example: that _insufferable_ imbecile for a man had just gone ahead and snogged her in front of the whole wizarding media. It had been such a ludicrously idiotic action that every time Narcissa thought about it ripples of laughter started pouring out of her mouth until she was gasping for air. A large part of her wished she could stay in that toilet permanently just so she could find that kiss funny forever.

But she was well aware that she couldn't, and in ten minutes time, twenty tops, she would have to down a sobering up potion and re-enter a world heavy with responsibility.

"Oh Merlin…" Narcissa groaned under her breath. "What has he done?"

To her credit, given the circumstances, she had damage controlled the situation admirably well. After the initial shock of feeling McLaggen's lips pushing against hers and hearing that roar of clicks crashing around her, she had gracefully parted from him, kissed him on both cheeks like two old friends greeting and with a "carefree" laugh, continued dancing with him until the song was over.

The thought of blasting his foot off had occurred to her, she could not deny it. But by casually shrugging off his advances, Narcissa had left everything in a wickedly ambiguous territory that could offend no party. Of course, every media outlet in the country would have a field day… and that did, of course, mean that Hermione would wake up to a picture of McLaggen snogging her on the front page of the Prophet… and that was just… embarrassing?

It occurred to Narcissa that the only shame she felt from this situation was derived from the realisation that Hermione would have to pay witness to this spectacle. Her relationship with Hermione existed in a whole different sphere from this circus and Narcissa found herself mortified at the prospect of the younger witch seeing her at her worst. But what could she do about it? She could hardly send an apology letter - that would be beyond bizarre. 'I'm sorry I'm snogging McLaggen in the papers.'

There were no grounds for apologising. No reason to apologise. And yet, there Narcissa Black sat on McLaggen's tiled bathroom floors feeling horribly apologetic. Like she'd betrayed some trust. Crossed an unspoken line. Disregarded a muted promise.

And that was the problem with the unarticulated - there was nothing to talk about when it was ruined.

There was a knock on the door.

"Just a minute!" Narcissa called out, downing the sobering up potion and banishing the empty bottle of Shiraz. She quickly reapplied her make up, then tucked her coral lipstick away and floated back to the party with a beaming smile.

**As it's my birthday I thought I should treat y'all to a drabble. It's like your metaphorical slice of cake, haha. R&amp;R!**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

It wasn't a well of tears. It wasn't even a flock of yellow birds conjured like a gun blast. It was… it was far more permeating than that, like the taste of firewhisky or the ache of internal bleeding. It was nostalgia and resignation and disappointment and envy all rolled into one well hooked punch to the stomach. It was a silent library. Unanswered letters. Shaking hands picking up the morning paper. It was selfish and and irrational and unproductive with all the proportions of Achilles' ruinous anger.

Maybe the real problem was how overwhelming the world had suddenly become; like burnt skin, aggravated even by the most well meaning touch. Or maybe it was just exhaustion; Odysseus' exhaustion.

Whatever it was, Hermione wanted no more of it. She gave up. She surrendered. She had no right to feel this way. This was not supposed to happen. Merlin, whenever she even thought about it, it sounded preposterous even to her. Although, to be fair, this wasn't the sort of thing that was meant to be thought, only felt.

Just let _her_ be happy and I'll have my peace, Hermione thought. Just let _her_ be happy and I'll have my peace. I can leave _her_ if she's happy. She knew she sounded pitiful, bordering on the pathetic and well past the cliché, but Hermione had no space left in her to care. If this was the cliché then she had found her people.

The real horror of the situation, however, was not this. No, it was far more mundane than that, and it hid in the knowledge that just because she had laid down her arms, it did not mean that the world around her had. By this point it was bordering on a conspiracy, led, of course, by the green cashmere jumper and rallied by the smell of lavender. The Prophet with its photos and its features was the daily weakening strike and the Black crest that was stamped onto everything, from her cutlery to her pillows, was an inescapable reminder of how much she missed _her_.

She missed _her,_ like a bookmark missed its favourite pages; an ocean missed the shore. She missed _her_, and yet, knew that she would not be able to stand to see _her_.

The paradox pushed her towards one book after another, after another, after another; her insatiable appetite for Narcissa Black was misdirected towards a literary consumption. It was as if she was hoping that with each page she read it would count like taking a step away from the witch. Each chapter would be a mile closer to forgetting _her_, all of _her_, from the way _her_ magic felt underneath her skin, to the weight of _her_ hand on her shoulder telling her goodbye.

There was a fatal flaw in her plan, however. In her desperation to run away from Narcissa Black, she had run so far she had inevitably returned to her original position. The irony was delicious, but she'd be damned if she'd let it beat her.

"No, I'm sorry Harry, but I'm just not going." Hermione said through clenched teeth as she threw some gillyweed into the cauldron.

"C'mon, Mione! This was _your_ idea and I am not going alone." Harry said in an equally resolute tone.

"I know." She snapped back. "Trust me. I know it was my goddamed idea."

"Then what happened to 'it'll be a good chance to catch up with everyone' and 'it'll be good to dress up and do something special for once'? - I mean look at me, I'm in this stupid suit and everything and _now_ you suddenly decide that you're not going?" He asked incredulously as the kitchen was filled with red vapours from the cauldron.

"Yes, Harry. That's exactly how it is." She answered darkly, the door bell cutting her off.

"I'll get the bloody door, but this is ridiculous." Harry muttered as he rushed for the door.

"Looking dapper, Harry." Bill greeted happily whilst Fleur nodded in agreement.

"Hermione's refusing to come." He replied flatly.

"What?" They both burst in unison.

"I will talk to her. Stay here." Fleur said moving in.

The French witch's long blue dress fluttered behind her like a waterfall rippling down her back while Harry muttered loudly, mostly to himself.

"Please do. I've been trying for the last half hour but she's not paying any attention to me."

Fleur entered the kitchen to find Hermione furiously chopping a whole array of ingredients, her hair a gigantic mess that was only dwarfed by the enormous sweatshirt she was wearing.

"I'm not going, so don't even bother." She warned.

Fleur didn't take the bait, taking instead the time to pull out one of the chairs and languidly sit down to wait for the younger witch's attention.

She had seen the picture; well, everyone had seen the picture; but now Fleur realised that it had been a big mistake to leave Hermione's overactive imagination to fawn over the infinite possibilities it entailed. They would be late to the party.

"You're going to be late." Hermione stated disapprovingly.

"I know." Fleur replied with a shrug of the shoulders.

"I'm not going." The muggleborn repeated.

"You said so."

Hermione dropped her knife rather forcefully on the wooden chopping board and turned to face her friend. "Then why are you still here?"

"I know what zis is about." Fleur replied quietly.

Hermione's expression flipped from exasperated to furious in a millisecond. "Don't go there, Fleur."

"I will. And 'ou will go to zis party even if I 'ave to drag 'ou myself."

"What's the _bloody_ point?" The younger witch asked furiously, her voice coming out much louder than she had expected.

"'Ave you talked to 'er?" Fleur asked, her tone a soft comparison to Hermione's.

"_No_, I have _not_ talked to her. There is _nothing_ to talk about. Plus, I think it was quite clear what's going on."

"Nozing is ever zat clear." Fleur argued.

"Yes, well, I think the front page of the Prophet is as clear as you can get." The muggleborn retorted, back to crushing toad eyes aggressively and scraping them into the cauldron. "You know, Fleur, I think I've finally learnt that people are layers and layers of secrets. You believe you know them, that you understand them, but their motives are always hidden from you, buried in their own hearts. You'll never know them."

"Oh, mon dieu! Enough of diz nonsense!" Fleur said rolling her eyes. "'Ou 'ave no idea what happened, and 'ou can't stay 'ere zulking making god knows what. No. Enough. We are going upstairs, finding a nice dress, doing zomething with zat 'air and then we are going to zis tactless party and you are going to find zat woman and set zings straight."

"Please…" Hermione whimpered. "Don't make me go. I don't think I can bare to-" her voice faltered and she tried again, her words spilling out like a broken confession to a priest. "I can't see her with him."

"'Ou do not know if she is his." Fleur said standing up. The older witch then gently put her hand on top of Hermione's to still her fervent chopping.

"What if she is?" Hermione asked, looking down at the bloody pulp that remained of her ingredients.

"Zen 'ou wish 'er ze best and let 'er go." Replied the older witch softly. "C'mon, lets get you in zat dress."

Hermione sighed. "Okay."

An hour and half and two missed portkeys later, the little group landed outside the great hall where the party was already in full swing. It was the first time Harry and Hermione had gone back to Hogwarts since the reconstruction, but now, now the dust had settled.

As Hermione was helped up to her feet by Bill she noticed a lone figure looking at them expectantly. The figure was wearing killer heels and had a red neckline that plunged elegantly down an ivory neck where a crested necklace rested as a centre piece. Hermione needed not have looked up to know exactly who was patiently standing outside the great hall - the rich perfume gave her away, and oh, how she loathed to admit that it took all her self-control not to close her eyes and just let the floral fragrance make peace for them both.

"Narcissa, good evening." Bill said politely, shaking her hand.

"Zank 'ou for ze invitation." Fleur added.

Narcissa gave them her politician's smile. "Thank you for coming. Do go in, I think almost everyone is here."

"Yeah, sorry we're late." Harry said rubbing the back of his hair, awkwardly glancing at Hermione. "We had some… delays."

"Think nothing of it." She reassured them and opened the door to let them in.

"You go on ahead - I have to, um… go to the toilet." Hermione said awkwardly.

Harry shrugged. "See you in a bit then."

'Talk!' Fleur mouthed at her as she went inside.

Both witches were left alone.

"Hello." Narcissa offered.

"Hi."

"You look stunning." The pureblood stated. What a relief it was to rest her eyes on the lithe figure of the muggleborn and know she was okay.

"Thank you. It was all Fleur, though." She replied, her hand vaguely gesturing to her face and the green dress that was complemented by a delicate little white open jumper. "You look amazing yourself."

"Thank you, I was feeling a bit bold and went for red. Not sure if I'm pulling it off, though… but I guess I'll find out in Tatler." Narcissa said lightly as an afterthought, and the old hall was immediately filled with the cantankerous expectation of a conversation neither witch knew how to start.

"So… I'm supposedly going to the toilet," Hermione volunteered. "What's your excuse for avoiding the adoring crowds?"

"I've been waiting." Said Narcissa without missing a beat.

"For what?"

At this, Narcissa found herself struggling to respond; she could not tell the muggleborn she had been waiting for her. "The wine." She said at last. "A few crates are still missing."

"Oh."

"I haven't heard from you in a while." Narcissa said trying to keep the hurt out of her voice.

"Well, you've been busy." Hermione replied testily.

"Not as busy as you, considering you haven't replied to my letters."

"Letter." Hermione corrected.

"I beg your pardon?" The pureblood asked incredulously.

"Letter. Singular. You sent one letter."

"I stand corrected then." Narcissa said appeasingly. "You didn't reply to my letter. I wasn't sure if you were okay."

"I'm fine."

"Still, you could've answered. I was worried." She said frowning.

It was dawning on Hermione that maybe… just maybe… she was being childish, and the mess of hypotheses and conclusions she had been saturating herself in for the past two weeks were more poison than vaccine. "How are you and McLaggen doing?" She asked bitterly, immediately hating how petty she sounded, even to herself.

Narcissa rolled her eyes, so this _was_ what it was all about. "For goodness sake, Hermione. By now you must realise that I would never be with a person whose appreciation of me is largely based on the belief that I am beautiful." She replied cooly.

"Oh." Hermione said in surprise. "But you are." She retorted in confusion. "Beautiful, that is. Objectively speaking."

"Beauty is nothing. It won't stay." Narcissa said rubbing her eyes tiredly. "People don't know how lucky they are to be ugly, because if people like them, they can know for sure it's for something else." She added in her trademark slow drawl.

"So let me get this straight… that photo-"

"Was a nightmare. Biggest PR disaster since Lucius went to Azkaban." Narcissa said exasperatedly. "That imbecile, well, was an imbecile. I've been bombarded for the last two weeks with requests for interviews and because I refuse to dignify the story with an answer the gossip becomes more and more salacious and…" Narcissa paused as she registered that Hermione had moved a few steps closer to her. "It's been horrible." _Because I missed you_, She concluded.

"I'm sorry." The muggleborn offered sincerely.

"You've nothing to apologise." Narcissa replied with slight confusion.

"I do - I mean, I ditched you in the middle of that disaster." Hermione explained. "I should've stood by you; instead I jumped to conclusions."

"Well you're here now." The pureblood said with a content smile.

"Yes, I am - unlike your wine." She replied with a light laugh.

It was that smile that did it. Narcissa kissed her. Without warning. Without permission. Without even deciding to do it, but simply because she couldn't have done anything else. She needed that breath Hermione was holding. It belonged to her, and she wanted it back. Narcissa bit the younger witch's bottom lip like hope, and before she knew it, Hermione was kissing her back like forgiveness. The pureblood couldn't think of anything except how the taste of Hermione's lips reminded her of all the magic in the world she had forgotten.

"Jesus fuck, I'd swallow poison if it tasted like you." Hermione whispered when they broke apart.

And like a recurrent nightmare that haunted the pureblood's dreams, she heard the sound of a camera shutter going off.

**Cannot apologise enough for how long this took to post - I'm not in the country so it's all been awfully messy, especially because I found this chapter surprisingly difficult to write. It's also why I wasn't able to respond to last chapter's reviews, but I'm so grateful for them and have been reading them! (Special thanks to those who wished me a happy birthday!)**

**Sidenote: For those who have been following my exam drama, I got my results a few days ago and it's official: I'm going to uni! Thanks for all the support guys :)))**

**R&amp;R!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Would like to give a massive thanks to ithinkyourewonderful who has taken on the brave task of being the beta to this story. Typos aren't mine this time :p**

Chapter 24

Born a Black, by nature a Slytherin and married to a Malfoy; a lifetime of cynicism had prepared Narcissa for this moment. Self-preservation took over like gravity guiding an object back down, down, down… She didn't even need to think about it to know she could not allow Hermione to be dragged into her world. The reporter had never stood a chance - one formidable stroke of her wand and his recent memory was wiped so clean it bordered on the antiseptic.

Deftly, Narcissa stepped over to where the prone body of the reporter lay and removed the film from his camera and inserted a clean one. This would be her gift to the muggleborn - the chance to blame this all on a momentary lapse of reason without consequence. "We have… about two minutes before he comes to his senses. We need to go inside before we arouse any suspicions." She whispered urgently to the muggleborn as she checked the reporter's pulse.

Unbeknown to the Slytherin, her words burnt Hermione like electricity, the only giveaway of the static shock were her raised eyebrows and the incredulous tone of her voice. "Wait wait! Are you seriously asking me to go inside and pretend like nothing happened?"

"Yes." Narcissa replied unflinchingly. This was for the best, she thought as she hardened her heart to the Gryffindor's disappointed face.

"But I can't - we can't - No, no - I mean -" Hermione stumbled over her words and she felt the burning prickle of tears threatening to spill, and in the most distant recesses of her mind, she couldn't help but find it ironic she always ended up crying at balls. "I can't pretend like nothing's happened."

"If you have any respect, any respect at all, for me, then we will go back in-" Narcissa pushed unyieldingly but the younger witch cut in.

"Respect? _Respect?_ Are you kidding me, Narcissa?!" Hermione spat back. "Respect was invented to cover the empty place where love should be."

"Do not talk to me about love." Narcissa warned, her voice as quiet as it was cold.

"Why not, Narcissa?" Hermione asked, hysteria creeping into the treble of her voice. "Why not when that's all I have for you? And need I remind you it was _you_ who kissed _me_?" Distress had given way to anger, and Hermione felt the surge of fury inebriate her body like wildfire.

"My fault… my failure…" Narcissa said perfunctorily as she started pacing the square antechamber deep in desperate thoughts, "is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them."

"You really do have a talent for making up bollocks on the spot." The muggleborn marvelled sarcastically.

"You don't understand." The pureblood retorted relentlessly.

"Then _please _do explain, what is it _exactly_ that I don't understand?"

"We really don't have time for this." Narcissa begged, wordlessly placing silencing charms around them just in case another reporter happened to stumble onto them.

"Why not when neither of us actually wants to go in?"

"Because this is neither the time nor the place -"

"Oh, would it be improper to talk about the fact you're ashamed of being acquainted with me, and that's why you hide me like some mistress in a Victorian novel?" Accused Hermione.

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"Really, _really_? I'm the one being ridiculous? You just broke seven laws to cover up a kiss."

"I'm just doing what is necessary, and I know one day you will thank me for it." The Slytherin drawled coldly.

"Merlin, no! I'm not letting you make this decision for the both of us. Either explain to me why you don't want to be seen with me, or I'm leaving."

"_FINE!_" The older witch finally exploded. "If this ever gets out; if this - us - is ever known by the people on the other side of that door, they will never forgive you. Can't you see, Hermione? You are the apostle of what is right, the champion of the defenceless, the genius behind the glorious Golden Trio who saved the world. And I am Narcissa Black: traitor to the wizarding world. I'm the sister of Bellatrix Lastrange, the wife to Lucius Malfoy, the host to Lord Voldemort, and I will be your _ruin._"

"I-I don't care." Hermione confessed desperately, removing the two steps of distance between her and the Slytherin. "I really, _really_ don't care."

"Don't be silly, Hermione. Do you think the Weasley's will ever be able to look at you the same way if they ever found out? Are you so naive as to believe that McGonagall and Longbottom and Lovegood and the others will ever trust you unquestionably again? Two wars were bankrolled in my name and they will never forgive me for it. Any association with me would count as a betrayal to them because I am still the enemy. I will _always _be the enemy. Look around you! Do you think it's a coincidence I have to organise the war commemoration celebrations? It's their way of reminding me of my place - that my side lost. The wounds are still too fresh, Hermione, just like the dead are still too alive."

For a moment, while Narcissa regained her breath, the foyer to the great hall was silent.

"And I will ruin you." The pureblood repeated softly.

Exhaustion and defeat were starting to creep into Hermione's bones whilst a dull ache pulled on her poisoned arm. Her eyes begged to close and her mind wished for no more debate. She knew her resistance was wasted breath - how could she say no to Narcissa Black, anyway? How could she say no when the pureblood was looking at her like she was the place where the earth finished and began? Like she was the lintel that held the entire weight of_ their_ future on her shoulders. Unthinkingly she leaned onto the older witch's shoulder and rested her head above Narcissa's collarbone the way she would rest her head against a pillow. Instinctively, the pureblood's arms were around her like a blanket, steadying her body.

"I'm not being silly." Hermione argued, holding stubbornly onto the last embers of her anger. "I really don't care."

"I know you don't care." Narcissa whispered firmly into Hermione's ear. "But one day you will. And I won't take that from you - I won't take your family." The Slytherin felt Hermione's body cave in and convulse with sobs, and sent a silent prayer of thanks that the reporter remained passed out. She closed her eyes and slowly ran her hand up and down the muggleborn's back as if trying to memorise every ridge and valley amidst the tremors of her spine.

"What's your stance on running away?" Hermione asked meekly, her head still buried in the crook of the pureblood's neck where the smell of lavender was being washed with her stubborn tears. Narcissa chuckled softly, tucking a loose strand of Hermione's hair behind her ear as she pulled away from the Gryffindor. "In another life, perhaps. One where we have somewhere to run to."

"They say Paris is always a good idea." Hermione suggested lightly, wiping away the tear tracks that ran down her face. The pureblood only smiled ruefully at her. Hermione closed her eyes as she gulped down the inevitable surrender. "But you're right, maybe in another life…" She said, taking a steadying breath to gather all the little courage she had left. "I suppose it best we go in."

"Yes, I suppose it is." Narcissa conceded in a distant tone.

With a flick of her wrist, all the wards she had placed dropped and the Slytherin opened one of the double doors, allowing the cheerful music of inside to flood the empty antechamber. Silently and resolutely, they stepped into the brimming hall with its bright lights and boisterous guests.

"_Hermione! - How I've missed you!"_ A familiar face called out.

"_Whatever happened to the wine, Cissy?"_ Someone else inquired.

"_Mione! You have got to try these canapés!"_ That was probably Ron.

"_Excellent party as always, Narcissa!"_

"_Are you going to give a speech, Miss Granger?"_

"_Ah, Miss Black, I was wondering what the itinerary for tonight was…?"_

"I'm not drunk enough for this…" Narcissa muttered to herself. "Please do tell me if you need anything, Miss Granger - I'll be most happy to comply." She said formally to the younger witch and disappeared amidst the crowd before Hermione could even respond.

"Mione, seriously - just try one." Ron said, pushing a small snack of colourful food in front of her face. "I have no idea what that red sauce is, but bloody hell! Wait - was that Narcissa Black?" Ron chuckled to himself.

"Yes, why Ronald?" Hermione asked coldly, taking the canapé Ron was waving at her face.

"Nothing, nothing!" Replied Ron, openly laughing now. One look at Hermione's serious face and he sobered up slightly. "It's just you always have a knack for fraternising with the enemy at these things."

Hermione shoved the canapé back into Ron's hand and turned around.

"Oh, c'mon, Mione! It was just a joke! I know you'd never talk to Narcissa Black if you didn't have to!" He called out to her. "We're on table number one, by the way!"

Hermione reached the bar and grabbed to closest flute of champagne she could get her hands on, wondering if she could just stay there the entire night.

"Good to see you're not dead yet, Granger." A cold, drawled out voice said to her.

Hermione turned to face Draco Malfoy staring at her with a faintly amused expression. "You don't look too pleased to be here." He continued, leaning on the bar.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" She replied flatly.

"Aside from the fact you were approximately two hours late?" He asked sarcastically. "Takes one to know one."

"Why are you here then?"

"Probably the same reason as you -" He said with a small smile. "Couldn't say no to my mother."

And despite herself, Hermione smiled. "She really has a talent for swaying people."

"Hmm," Draco wordlessly agreed.

A comfortable silence ensued as the pair sipped on their champagne and watched the mirthful crowds loudly chat amongst each other. Everyone was dressed so nicely, Hermione thought to herself. She could see Molly in an extravagant violet dress, and in the corner talking to a small group of people was Seamus in bright golden robes. "This feels so odd…" She mumbled. "It's like we're celebrating a war. Shouldn't this all be more…"

"Reserved and respectful?" Draco supplied.

"At the very least."

"You can't blame them for a carnival after misery." He replied. "You took to your books, they took to their parties - we all find peace in different ways."

"I suppose both activities are equally futile…" Hermione sighed.

"Whatever happened to what you were working on with my mother?" Draco asked politely, his eyebrows furrowing slightly.

"Oh, it's going - kind of." Hermione said wincing as her heart sank. "We've just reached a stage where we don't know how to move forward."

"I'm sure the set back is only momentary, you are, after all, the brightest witch of our age." He said in a tone that was almost playful.

Hermione smiled at him. "I'm afraid It's a little bit more complicated than that."

"I have no doubt it is, if it's got both you and my mother dumbfounded."

"To be honest, I'm coming to think it might be a question best left to Prometheus' Palace." The muggleborn said wearily.

Draco looked at her with a surprised expression. "How do you know of the Palace?"

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Just an old Slytherin expression, why?"

The pureblood's grey eyes hardened. "I'm sure I needn't remind _you_, of all people, that it isn't wise to play with old Slytherin legends."

Before Hermione could form any type of response, a beautiful woman dressed in a loose silver dress swooped next to them. "There you are, darling. I've been looking for you every where! Cissy says we should start going back to our tables. Oh, hello, Miss Granger, I'm Astoria Malfoy." She said warmly, extending her hand out to the muggleborn.

"Please call me Hermione." She replied, shaking her hand.

"Then do call me Astoria." She said with a bright smile. "Cissy said they're going to start with the speeches any minute now, so I think it best we find our seats."

"Good idea, I think I see Harry over there." Hermione mumbled.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Hermione." The younger witch said sincerely.

"Likewise."

"Chin up, Granger - it's going to be a long one." Draco said with as much resignation as Hermione felt. He handed her another flute of champagne with a curt nod of understanding before Astoria linked arms with him and slowly, the three made their way to their tables.

**R&amp;R!**


	25. Chapter 25

**Once again, my most enormous thanks to ithinkyourwonderful.**

Chapter 25

Cissy glanced at the clock on the mantlepiece and stood up to turn the radio on. With practiced motions she waved her wand to find the correct tuning until she found the station she had heard an interview would happen. Radio silence followed her to her chair until a cheery male voice filled her marble living room.

"_Hi, we're back. This is Capital Radio and we have a very special surprise for our listeners. Joining us today is none other than Hermione Granger, here to talk to us about her research in theoretical magic. How are you doing Hermione?"_

"_Fine, thank you… just a little wet."_

"_Oh yeah, it's still pouring out there."_

"_Yeah, I had to run from the portkey landing place."_

"_Well, we're glad you made it. Now, your new papers, you've published a handful in the past few months which have become instant bestsellers all around the magical world. Tell us a little about the themes running through them. I noticed there was a good deal of repeated references to magical branding in the papers - you know, different forms of branding, curses, blessings, artefacts. Could you discuss some of this?"_

"_Sure. Let's see, the branding is -"_

"_First let me say, the papers are brilliant, we're all really excited about the possibilities here at the station. We get lots of calls about it, it's really good stuff."_

"_Thank you, thanks a lot."_

"_So talk a little about the themes."_

"_The branding?"_

"_Sure."_

"_Well the branding is a reference to the way black magic has a way of searing itself on the host in such a manner that it becomes part of the person afflicted with the curse. It's certainly different for different people. But it's the moment when the black magic intertwines with the host."_

"_I see."_

"_And the research is, as you might have guessed, an examination of the long term effects that branding can have, and if there's any possibility, even theoretical, for the reversal of the effects."_

"_That's interesting. And how about the discoveries you have come across about medicinal magic?"_

"_Oh yes, as a byproduct of the work, there's been quite a few discoveries about the healing potential of blood magic. St Mungos is currently developing two of the rituals we wrote the underlying equations for."_

"_You just said 'we', which brings us to Hippocrates. Who is this research partner of yours? How does he fit in to all of this?"_

"…_Hippocrates?"_

"_Yes, we see he shares the credits alongside you in all the papers you've recently published. Can you tell us about him?"_

"_Well, my methodology of work is usually trying to solve problems quantitatively through logic or rationalisation. Hippocrates likes to argue that that approach is often fruitless in matters of dark magic… they have a very practical approach. It creates a good balance I wouldn't otherwise have, most of the work, actually, would not have been possible without us working together."_

"_So how did you meet Hippocrates?"_

"_Eh… a mutual friend introduced us."_

"_Oh, really? So you haven't known each other long?"_

"_Um… well… I suppose not, actually. We just dived into our work."_

"_Now that you've published this anthology of papers, will you two continue to work together? I mean, the worked you've published is just amazing. Have I mentioned how everyone here at the station loves the work?"_

"_Yes, thank you."_

"_So can we expect more work from you two?"_

"_That depends."_

"_Oh really? On what? We would love more work from you two."_

"_Well, it's up to Hippocrates, really. Working with them has been one of the most rewarding experiences I've had, but it's up to them really. I would love- I mean, I would look forward to working with them again, if they- if they wanted to." _

"_Are we looking at the start of an office romance with the allusive Mr. Hippocrates?"_

"_No, no! I'm sure neither of us would ever dream of that. The arrangement has always been… very professional."_

"_What a shame - I've always been a sucker for a good love story."_

"_No, it's not even certain if we'll have the opportunity to work together again."_

"_I'm sure they wouldn't want to pass up the opportunity of working with Hermione Granger. That is an accolade in and of itself." _

"_Thank you… but they have a busy schedule, and they have important work to do as well."_

"_Talking about busy schedules; we saw you in the War Commemoration Ball a few weeks ago."_

"_Oh…"_

"_What pushed you to go? We know that's not your sort of event."_

"_I know; or well, knew; someone who it meant a lot, if I went."_

"_Oh! Has someone caught your eye?"_

"_No! No! Not at all."_

"_Are you sure?"_

"_Yes, I'm very sure."_

"_You looked splendid in that green dress, by the way."_

"_Thank you."_

"_It was interesting, seeing you in Slytherin colours, that is."_

"_Yeah… it was a change."_

"_We noticed Narcissa Black was in a bold red - everyone was switching it up. Are you familiar with Narcissa Black?"_

"_Just… just in passing."_

"_Did you think she did a good job with the ball? Do you think you'll go to another one of her balls?"_

"_Eh…"_

"_I forget, you're not into balls."_

"_No, no - it's not that…"_

"_Oh, my apologies, I haven't asked you your opinion on Narcissa Black. Such a divisive figure in the wizarding community, I might add. Excellent balls in my opinion."_

"_Yeah…"_

"_But it must be difficult for you to deal with her, you know, being part of the golden trio."_

"_No-!"_

"_I'm afraid that's all the time we have right now. This is Capital Radio, thank you so much for listening. This was just Hermione Granger talking about her latest research work. How she's keen to work with Hippocrates again, and how Narcissa Black is not her cup of tea. Once again, thank you for tuning in."_

Cissy turned the radio off and sank into her chair.

**Have finally settled into uni - expect more regular and longer updates ;D **

**R&amp;R!**

**(p.s. the whole moving thing has meant I haven't been able to reply to some reviews, but I will get to them!)**


	26. Chapter 26

**You guys have no idea what a fantastic job 'ithinkyourwonderful' did for this chapter! As always - my many thanks.**

Chapter 26

A piping hot cup of tea, a heavenly comfortable armchair, and the carefully selected pile of books she had curated from Grimmauld's library. Hermione picked the first in her stack - 'A Modern Mistresses' Guide to Manners' - that sounded like Narcissa to the core, Hermione decided. With an annoyed eye-roll at the colourful cover depicting a laughing witch entertaining a small group of people, she opened the introduction and skimmed over the small lettering.

"…_But it is more than this. The intercourse must be both active and friendly. Man is a gregarious animal; but while other animals herd together for the purpose of mutual protection, or common undertakings, men appear to form the only kind who assemble for that of mutual entertainment and improvement. But in society properly so called, this entertainment must address the higher part of man…_"

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes again. 'Society properly so called'? The book was so elitist it wasn't even trying to pretend otherwise. She turned the page, a torn piece of yellowing parchment falling out between the pages. The muggleborn immediately recognised the handwriting in playful green ink that still had enough magic in it to cheekily change through various shades of bright green.

"_Is Sirius coming to the Fortress this summer or is he off with the Potters again? We do miss him, especially Bella. By the way, mother says we're to start learning how to waltz over the holidays. She's employed a Russian warlock to keep residence over the summer to ensure we're taught 'the correct postures' - you know how she is about these things. Thought you should have a copy of this book; the chapter on waltzing is… edifying, at the very least. You might also like to have a flick through the rest, give mama a run for her money."_

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, the idea of Bellatrix Lestrange missing Sirius sat uncomfortably with her. Not to mention how different Narcissa sounded, or, well, read. She had grown to expect a certain level of crypticness from the older witch and it was certainly lacking here. Maybe she should have a look at the chapter on waltzing.

The book's pages easily gave way to the chapter where sooty fingers had marred the white paper and stuffed a little letter between a moving etching that showed people dancing and the introduction for 'Chapter 8: Accomplishments'. Hermione's eyes wandered to the text.

"…_But to the waltz, which poets have praised and preachers denounced. The French, with all their love of dancing, waltz atrociously, the English but little better; the Germans and Russians alone understand it. I could rave through three pages about the innocent enjoyment of a good waltz, its grace and beauty, but I will be practical instead, and give you a few hints on the subject…"_

The young witch rubbed her eyes as she remembered all those pictures of Narcissa dancing to soundless music in the pages of Tattler. Even with eyes closed she could see the pureblood swirling in those lavish ballrooms, smiling for the cameras, one hand resting on a faceless man's shoulder, the other entwined in his hand.

"…_The position is the most important point. The witch and wizard before starting should stand exactly opposite to one another, quite upright, and not, as is so common in England, painfully close to one another…_"

Common indeed, Hermione thought sarcastically to herself, her mind naturally bringing her back to that picture of Narcissa and McLaggen spinning on the dance floor until he slowed for a moment, whispered something to her and leaned in to kiss her. Of course _he_ got to kiss her in front of the whole British press, she thought with a slight bitterness she refused to admit to. With trepidation, Hermione opened the envelope to find a muggle photograph and small note. The books pages folded closed.

"_Regulus Arcturus Black! I know you took that picture! The flash completely gave you away! You better burn it or so help me I will curse you into next week! Mama would kill me if she ever saw it. Especially after what happened with Dro. I swear it was Lucius' idea anyway!"_

Hermione picked up the picture and saw a startlingly young looking Narcissa, holding herself up against a wall, her head just turned to the camera, showing smudged makeup and a crumpled evening gown. What shocked Hermione, however, wasn't the despondent expression or the photographic proof of Narcissa's teenage indiscretions, but the muggle cigarette dangling expertly between her lips; captured with a muggle camera no less.

Hermione had no idea what to make of it. Half of her found it ironic that the picture had been squished between ten kilos of etiquette books and the other half of her wondered if Narcissa knew that Regulus had kept the picture. Who else had seen the photo, for that matter? Or had it simply managed to stay hidden all these decades in Regulus' second edition of 'A Modern Mistress' Guide to Manners'? Regulus… Hermione wondered what Narcissa would have been like had Regulus not died. Then she pondered what would've happened to her had the dark lord never entered her life… Had she not been wedded to Lucius… Had she not been born into that family. Had- Hermione stopped herself. What a pointless train of thought. She knew the answer to those questions: she wouldn't be Narcissa.

Tucking the picture and letter back into the envelope, Hermione opened the book again on a random page and began to read once more: "_…No rank, no wealth, no celebrity will induce a well-bred English lady to admit to her drawing-room a man or woman whose character is known to be bad. Society is a severe censor, pitiless and remorseless. The witch who has once fallen, the wizard who has once lost his honour, may repent for years; good society shuts its doors on them once and for ever."_

Hermione sighed sadly. The last two sentences had been underlined with bright red ink, and Narcissa had written a note to Regulus in her careful script on the margin. _"Wonder how we haven't been shunned?"_

She kept reading.

"…_Society itself is the court in which are judged those many offences which the law cannot reach, and this inclemency of the world, this exile for life which it pronounces, must be regarded as the only deterrent against certain sins… Often is it given without a fair trail, on the report of a slanderer; often it falls upon the wrong head; often it proves its injustice in ignoring the vices of one and fulminating against those of another; often, by its implacability, drives the offender to despair, and makes the one false step lead to the ruin of a life…" _

Hermione could bare to read no longer, each damning word the book hurled at her made her think of another burnt face on the tapestry in the room below her, and her heart ached for Narcissa. It was no wonder the older witch was willing to grin and bear any discomfort. So she flicked the pages.

"…_we are not, we English, and nation of talkers; naturally our talent is for silence…"_

The muggleborn bit her lip, trying not to recall the content and familiar quiet they had shared together in the Fortress' library. A few split seconds later and Hermione was desperately flicking the pages again as she tried in vain to block out the memory of the cold, pointed silence that filled the gaps between their polite exchanges in public.

"…_when asked of something, if you do not intend to do so, refuse so more decidedly that you cannot be compelled; but the more decided the refusal, the gentler should the manner be. There is a style of saying 'No' that never offends…"_

Again the cheeky notes in red ink cut in the text -_ "this man has clearly never met your mother, has he Reg?"_

Hermione had had enough. The dramatic irony she was presented with when reading Narcissa's cheerfully innocent notes made her feel slightly sick. She closed the book and placed it next to her cold tea.

After a moments hesitation she opened the book again and pulled out the picture of Narcissa. The pureblood couldn't have been any older than sixteen and she already looked exhausted with the whole charade of 'good society'. Maybe their lives weren't so dissimilar. Hermione knew all too well that a pedestal was as much a prison as any small, confined place; and maybe that was why Narcissa had taken the muggle cigarette, she pondered, everyone needed to have the illusion that one was making one's own life.

Hermione's mind wondered back to her own childhood. Back to those patchy images and distant voices. Those scenes from now-hazy memories. But try as she might to revive them, the muggle world had lost it's former clarity. Perhaps she too no longer existed for the muggle world. It was gone, cast off. She was probably as surprised to have come out of the muggle world as it was surprised to have spawned her. Hermione's fingers traced the rim of her mug, magic humming through her skin and into the ceramic as her tea was warmed and she looked earnestly at the picture. To live like this you would have had to forget everything that came before. How else could she have managed to survive?

She put the photo down. That was not to say she had disowned her muggle roots. Her predicaments with the old ways were a stark reminder of where she came from. Of where she was proud to come from. It was just that… life gave priority to the living. The departed - their shadows, their silhouettes, their voices, scents and memories - slowly but eventually began to dwindle and recede. Humans, for their part, were hardly the most loyal of beings, especially when it came to the past. So, she concluded, she was dead to her parents, for being dead was tantamount to never have been born. She could live with that.

Hermione sighed and picked up the old colourful book and in a last ditch effort to gain some more insight into the pureblood's world, she flicked the annotated pages until the spine of the book naturally gave way to page 178. Ah… the chapter on fish. Hermione sighed, it was probably best she read it - more information was good information. Might even come in handy for that fancy conference she was going to in the evening to talk about the anthology.

"…_it is essential to instruct your house elf that fish is cut with a large flat silver knife or fish-slice, never with a common one. Of small fish, the elf must send one to each person. All the larger flat fish, such as turbot, John Dorey, brills, &amp;c., must be first cut from head to tail down the middle…"_

Hermione could not stop looking at the still picture of Narcissa. Although the act captured was defiant, her cold blue eyes spoke of resignation. The dichotomy made Narcissa look like she was suffering from vertigo. Hermione had seen this expression on Narcissa far too many times. It was as if the older witch was forcing stillness in herself, despite knowing that it would not stop the world from continuing on.

If Hermione had learnt one thing about the pureblood, it was that Narcissa's goal in life was 'something higher'. Vague as the sentiment was, it made sense that if someone's goal was 'something higher' they would suffer vertigo. As Hermione observed the picture of Narcissa inhaling grey smoke into her lungs despite knowing she'd be lynched if she got caught, it occurred to Hermione that the vertigo Narcissa suffered was not the fear of falling. Rather, it was the voice of emptiness below her, tempting her and luring her. It was the desire to fall, against which, terrified, the pureblood held on to protocols and etiquette books to defend herself.

How then, was she supposed to convince her to jump with her? Narcissa would chalk it all up to her being a reckless Gryffindor in a heartbeat. It wouldn't matter that Hermione had her reasons, her passions. All that seemed to matter was that Narcissa couldn't see that she wasn't a bad person. That, in fact, she was a terrific person. Her favourite person. No, the pureblood seemed oblivious to all that.

The muggleborn sighed, forcing her attention back to the chapter on fish. "_and then in portions from this cut to the fin, which being considered the best part, is helped with the rest…_"

Hermione turned the page, her attention immediately drawn to the sentence that had been circled in the red ink._ "We shall never know where Prometheus' Palace is, but we should all know how to open an oyster."_ Hermione's heart started beating as she read Narcissa's commentary: _"Do we get bonus marks for knowing both things?"_

Well, Hermione thought… wasn't that interesting?

With almost arrogant determination Hermione decided two could play at this game.

**R&amp;R!**


	27. Chapter 27

**Massive thanks to ithinkyourewonderful who edited this chapter even though they were poorly. Top notch, man.**

Chapter 27

Still half asleep, Narcissa tried figuring out who's bed she was in. Innocence insisted she was in Hogwarts - tucked into her four poster bed with those green cotton sheets her friends hated because they weren't silk.

But no… the bedding was far too smooth for that.

With a flutter of disappointment that tinted her hazy dreams, she let instinct take the next guess. Instinct argued that if she remained in bed, she would be awoken by the sound of her sisters' laughter and a gush of cold wind as they opened her window and let the crisp sea air into the room.

Narcissa burrowed herself deeper into her bed, preparing for the assault but the room remained silent.

Habit reminded her of Lucius. Of Malfoy Manor. Of black and gold wallpaper. Of ebony floors and large Georgian windows. So she stretched out her hand expecting to meet soft breathing, warmth and the smell of rich cologne.

Instead - more silk.

It was reason's turn to intervene. Reluctantly, Narcissa let the last tendrils of sleep slip away as she opened her eyes and looked around the room. Of course. She was in one of the guest bedrooms of Malfoy Manor. "Coffee." She demanded to the empty room, her voice muffled by the pillow under her cheek. "Where's my damned coffee?"

Waking up in Malfoy Manor always put her in a bad mood. How she had let Astoria convince her to stay with her and Draco for a few weeks was beyond her. She sat up, her scowl intensifying for every second the coffee didn't appear on her bedside table. Why hadn't she brought Limpy with her?

"Coffee." She repeated, and at last a porcelain cup appeared on her bedside table. With a dignified huff she took a sip of the brew and stretched her back.

This was the first time she'd returned to the Manor since the day Lucius had died and she had moved to the Fortress, leaving Draco the estate he was entitled to since birth.

That had been an exhausting day, Narcissa thought with a sigh. Lucius had been distraught throughout, almost as if he had known that death was finally coming for him. He had roamed around the Manor one last time, stroking and petting the furniture - the vases, the chairs, the mirrors, cupboards and cabinets, everything - weeping the whole time as though he was apologising to them. She had seen her own mother go through the same strange ritual before her death and knew it was best to let the moribund get on with it.

"_What will they do when I'm gone?" _Her mother had kept asking herself as she stroked the piano.

"_They're just things, Mama. Please come back to bed. They can't feel anything."_ Narcissa had tried reasoning.

"_That's what you think, young lady. These furnishings and belongings have been far more my family to me than many of my so called relatives. At least they've stayed with me, something my own daughters didn't do. How can they be without feeling? If you listen, you'll hear them. They're all crying because I'm leaving. If you can't hear them, then that's your concern, not mine." _

Narcissa had quietly walked away, trying not to think about how her mother would rather spend her last few hours with the furniture than with her. Her mother was right about something though, Andy and Bella had abandoned their mother in their own way; and the loss had been so great for Druella, that she no longer noticed that her youngest daughter had stayed.

As Narcissa tightened her dress and straightened the picture of the 1932 Slytherin Quidditch team that hanged in the guest bedroom, she pondered that maybe the furnishings in these old houses really did talk. After all, they were the ones she opened up to when things got out of hand with Lucius. They were the ones with whom she had shared her pain, her grief and her rage; they were the ones who listened patiently and were witness to her helplessness: The opulent staircase, the embroidered curtains, the dressing table with the drawer that stuck, the small bookcase on the second floor, the flowers in the vases; everything that had made the Manor her home had felt the same anger she did, cried like she did, cursed their fate like she did. Likewise, on the rare occasions when she was able to withstand the terror of the Dark Lord's residency and Lucius' torments, then that too, was due to the Manor and everything within it.

Narcissa stepped out of her temporary accommodation and into the long corridor, trying, as she did, to suppress the ugly feeling of disapproval she felt every time she surveyed the current state of Malfoy Manor. Astoria had redecorated, and to pastel green no less.

The portraits looked considerably disgruntled themselves, and as she passed them, a few called out to her demanding she put a stop to their current mistress' nonsense. Oh, Astoria was a good girl, and she had the best intentions at heart, if not perhaps the best tastes. But she was good for Draco and this was no longer her household.

Narcissa made her way to the dining room and sat opposite to a beaming Astoria.

"Good morning." Narcissa said politely.

Draco smiled at his mother. "Morning."

"Good morning." Astoria replied brightly.

The food appeared on the table, but before Narcissa had even time to reach for the cherries Astoria finally burst out what was on her mind. "So what do you think, Cissy?"

"…I do beg your pardon?"

"The redecoration! What do you think? I oversaw it all myself!"

Narcissa smiled gracefully at the younger girl. "It's lovely, dear."

"She's been so worried about it." Draco said with a small humorous smile that he shared with his mother.

"You needn't have." Narcissa reassured her gently. "The… pastel green, in particular, is… quite a revelation."

Draco coughed lightly, trying to disguise a laugh.

"Tell me, Draco - were you part of this renovation?" Narcissa asked tartly, catching her sons eyes and showing him her amused disapproval.

The young man blushed. "Not quite, mother. Astoria wanted to keep it a surprise - even from me."

Astoria observed the light humour her husband and mother-in-law were exchanging and smiled to herself. Of course she knew the pastel green was outrageous, especially under Abraxas' portrait, but those two needed something to laugh about, especially after the ball last week.

The young witch could remember the exact moment during the commemoration that she had realised something very wrong had happened. While most of the invitees were up on the dance floor jumping up and down to the Weird Sisters (how Cissy had managed to book them was still beyond her), Draco had been talking contently with Blaise Zabini, his hand resting on her thigh. Her dark green eyes trailed onto the other person who remained on their table - Cissy herself. That night her mother-in-law had been dripping in despondence, a despondence which, in all fairness, only seemed to complement her ruby red dress and enhance her elegance.

The young witch had taken a sip of her white wine and wondered what could've been bothering Cissy. Was it those crates of elvish wine that never came? No, if she had learnt anything about Cissy, it was that she didn't tend to pay heed to such trivialities. Maybe it was just the anniversary they were celebrating. Astoria herself still remembered the battle of Hogwarts with a shiver running down her spine. Most of the details from the day were hidden behind a blur of tears, but there was one image that had stayed imprinted on her mind with a painstakingly precise clarity: Narcissa and Lucius, wandless, running between duels screaming Draco's name.

There had been something in the older witch's demeanour that reminded her of that day. The young witch had carried on discreetly looking at Narcissa, until with surprise she understood why that scene kept coming to her mind every time her eyes landed on her mother-in-law. Once again Cissy looked like she had lost something and was desperately searching for it in the crowd of the Great Hall. What had Cissy lost this time? Astoria wondered with confusion.

That night Astoria had resolved to invite the older witch to their home were she could keep an eye on her. Make sure she was okay. Not that she would ever dare confess any of this to Draco, let alone Narcissa. Her mother-in-law struck her as the sort of woman who stood right on the edge, where the decisions had to be made. She made them so that others wouldn't have to, so that other could pretend to themselves that there were no decisions to be made, that things just happened. She never said what she did, and she never asked for anything in return. But everyone needed to be taken care of every once in a while, even Narcissa Black; so she had painted the walls of Malfoy Manor pastel green.

"So, Cissy, what's your next project going to be?" Astoria asked politely. "It's always so exciting to hear what you're up to."

Narcissa faltered for a second as her heart contracted with shame and she was caught frozen with her wrist in mid air as she held duck pâté on a silver knife. But the shock was short lived. She lowered the knife and smiled gracefully at the eager girl. "I'm taking a holiday of sorts." She said at last. "Although, I do have some commitments that would… take precedence over everything if they were to resume."

Draco looked curiously at his mother, recognising the distant smile she only wore when trying to disguise some disappointment. "What happened to that research project you were working on?" He asked casually.

Narcissa's smile tightened. "I made a mistake of sorts."

Draco nodded and stared into the contents of his pumpkin juice as he put together his mother's pained admission of guilt and Hermione's disappointed surrender. How curious.

"What a shame." Draco finally commented. "I know how important it was for all parties involved. Are you sure it's over, mother?"

Narcissa's eyes darted to her son, warning him not to tread further on the subject. "It's probably for the best, Draco." She said carefully, trying to keep any emotion from her voice. Her nails dug into the palm of her hand as she calmly continued, "before anyone gets hurt." Narcissa took a large gulp of her demi-sec to wash out the bitter taste those words left in her mouth. How she missed that stubborn girl.

She missed the laughter, the self-righteous crusades, the science, their little squabbles.

"_Science will explain everything one day._" Hermione would mumble with her nose stuck between two pages of book.

"_How very muggle of you."_ Narcissa would reply tartly, not daring to look up from her book.

Then it would be Hermione's turn to straighten up and look up at Narcissa with playful incredulousness. _"I beg your pardon?"_

This was Narcissa's cue to roll her eyes and face Hermione, _"This… science of yours, it's all about the objective and verifiable, am I correct?"_ Hermione would nod, slumping in her chair as she listened to the pureblood contently. _"However, our experience of the world - what it is like to live and to breath, and to love and to hate - consciousness; all this, is ineradicably subjective. If scientific explanations are always objective, it would be a fool's quest to search for a complete, objective scientific explanation of a subjective world." _These little speeches always had a knack for earning her a beaming smile from the younger witch-

Narcissa snapped back to the present. "I'm sorry, Astoria - I didn't quite catch that?"

"I was just wondering if you'd like to go to a botanical garden show with me today? I hear the Snargaluff's have just bloomed."

Narcissa smiled at her daughter-in-law. "I would love to."

"Draco?" Astoria cooed at her husband.

The young man rolled his eyes indulgently. "If you insist."

"Excellent! We should head out in about half an hour!" Astoria exclaimed enthusiastically.

Both mother and son shared an indulgent smile, knowing neither would ever have the heart to say 'no' to any of Astoria's requests.

**R&amp;R**


	28. Chapter 28

**As always, ithinkyourwonderful has my enormous gratitude.**

Chapter 28

Hermione looked at the clock that hung on bannister of Flourish and Blotts and sighed in relief as she noticed there were only twenty minutes left before her book signing was over. The main bulk of the crowd had dissipated but a number of people were still trickling in for a chance to get her latest best seller signed.

The young witch played with the cuff of her cerulean jumper and wondered how Narcissa could put up with so many flashing cameras and being the focus of such undivided attention from the general public. Between the constant smiling and hand shaking it had only taken two hours before she felt exhaustion creeping into her bones. Her left hand was especially sore and she was counting down the minutes before she could go home and take her potions. She gently rubbed her stiff wrist, trying to imitate the patterns Narcissa would press into her skin to relieve the tense muscles that were contracted painfully up her arm.

A book was slid on the table for her.

"Who should I make it to?" She asked politely looking up as she pulled the sleeve of her jumper back down.

"Wilkins!" Said the middle aged wizard excitedly. "I'm such a fan, Miss Granger!"

"Thank you, Mr Wilkins."

"I especially loved chapter 2 - the arithmetic for those healing spells - an absolute beauty!"

"Yes, it took a while to crack them." Hermione said smiling as she signed the book and remembered how smug Narcissa had been at completing the algorithms before her.

"Would you two like a picture?" Asked the photographer who had stood vigilant all afternoon beside her. "It's two sickles a photograph."

Wilkins looked at Hermione like his dream had come true. "Only if you don't mind, Miss Granger."

"Not at all."

Hermione stood up and placed her arm around the happy wizard and let the flash burst out on them.

"Thank you so much, Miss Granger!" Mr Wilkins insisted as he shook her hand.

Hermione sat back down on the wooded chair, closing her eyes for a moment and remembered the horrid nightmare she'd had to wake Harry from last night. His desperate screaming could be heard from the other side of the corridor and it had taken magic to wake him from his slumber. Hermione wondered if the boy would let her give him a proper health check and she started to formulate the way she would bring the touchy subject up until she heard the sound of a book being placed gently on the table.

"Who should I make it to?" She asked automatically.

"Narcissa Black, if you please." A smooth, drawled out voice called out to her.

Hermione's eyes jumped up and she smiled widely. Oh, was the older witch a sight for sore eyes. One hasty look over at the green tight bodice dress Narcissa was wearing and Hermione's appreciation of fashion was revolutionised. The delicate golden embroidery that had been stitched all along the torso was like a glimpse of the pureblood's personality making the sleek dress a dramatic enigma with double entendres and ironies Hermione did not have the time to interpret.

"Only if you sign me one." She managed at last.

Narcissa shook her head in amusement. "If you insist."

"I do." Hermione replied daringly, passing Narcissa a book from the little pile she had next to her.

The pureblood kept her eyes trained on the muggleborn, trying to read the sentences written across her body like the crumpled left sleeve of her pretty blue jumper that spoke of a discomfort on her wounded arm. Then there was the flirtation with innocence her cream coloured dress was aspiring to enchant. Satisfied with the clues she'd picked up, Narcissa inked her quill on the pot Hermione had on the table and considered what to write.

_To Miss Granger,_

_Always with love,_

_-Hippocrates_

She closed the book and exchanged copies with Hermione. Narcissa opened the cover and with a small tug on her heart read the message the muggleborn had left.

"I miss you too." Narcissa said quietly.

"Then let me take you out for coffee. The Ritz is just around the corner." Hermione said as casually as she could. Narcissa sighed, and the young witch knew she was formulating all the reasons why they probably shouldn't, so she cut in before Narcissa could say no. "Well, maybe not just around the corner. But it is a lovely afternoon for a walk and I would kill a man for a tiramisu right now."

Narcissa's resolve broke down and she smiled in defeat. "Well, that would be terrible manners - couldn't have that, now could we?"

Hermione joined in the comfortable laughter. "No, no we couldn't."

"Would you two like a picture?" The photographer asked with a bored sigh. "It's two sickles a photograph."

"Miss Black would love a picture. In fact, I'll have one too, please." Hermione said cheekily. The muggleborn rose from the chair and stretched, her smile lingering as she noticed the way the Slytherin's gaze quickly slid over her body. Walking around the table, she put her arm around Narcissa's waist, waiting for the man to set up the camera and leaving Narcissa no option but to stand still as she felt the soft weight of Hermione's hand resting just above her hip and the light pressure of the younger witch's body leaning onto her side.

"It'll just be a moment - I need a new film." The wizard said gruffly, turning around to find his bag of equipment.

"You know you should be signing these books with me." Hermione said quietly, not releasing her grip of the older witch's waist.

"Your handwriting is better than mine." Narcissa replied innocently, keenly aware of the heat that was traveling through the thin layer of satin onto her skin from the Gryffindor's hand.

"Bollocks." The muggleborn shot back playfully catching the older witches eyes. Their gazes held, and Narcissa experienced a strange shock of awareness that went from her head to her toes.

"If you could look at the camera now." The wizard called out to them.

Hermione's hand slightly increased the pressure against Narcissa's waist and she smiled fondly at the flashing camera. The muggleborn then handed the wizard the silver coins in exchange for the pictures, leaving Narcissa's waist feeling desolate at the loss of contact.

"So - the Ritz?" Hermione asked as she handed the pureblood a copy of the photo.

Narcissa smiled indulgently as she nodded. "I'll meet you outside of the Leaky Cauldron when you're done here - on the muggle side."

"Okay." Hermione confirmed. "On the muggle side in twenty minutes."

The muggleborn sat back in her chair and watched as Narcissa gracefully made her way out of shop without once looking back. Hermione rubbed her eyes as she supposed that the pedants were right. Love did not hurt so good. It hurt so well. Another book was plopped on her table.

"Who should I make it to?" She asked, breaking out of her revery.

"Miss Trusted, please." A middle aged witch said happily.

"With pleasure, Miss Trusted." Hermione mumbled, dipping her quill in the ink pot.

"Would you like a picture? It's two sickles a photograph."

"I would love one!" The witch responded.

Hermione bit back a sigh. These twenty minutes were going to be a pain.

**Short and sweet to get you guys excited for what's to come. Hope you enjoyed ;)**

**R&amp;R!**


	29. Chapter 29

**Happy holidays y'all! This chapter is dedicated to Carelyn Stark who has informed me it is her birthday on the 5th. Rock on another year.**

**As always, praise be to 'ithinkyourwonderful' who helped work on the chapter despite personal impediments. **

Chapter 29

Perplexing. Almost disconcerting. Certainly astounding. Watching Narcissa Black casually walk through the streets of muggle London in the evening light was most definitely an overload for the senses. Hermione couldn't quite pin what it was - maybe it was the click of the pureblood's obscenely expensive heels on the grubby cement of Trafalgar Square; or maybe it was her innate aristocratic confidence that made Nelson, First Viscount of Nelson, First Duke of Bronté, look plebeian compared to the proud upright posture that Narcissa maintained in her stride. The tourists themselves naturally made way for her as if they could sense they were brushing with someone larger than life. Hermione wondered what it would be like to take a detour into the National Gallery and stare at all those wonders with the pureblood at her side and finally be able to decide what was more astonishing - Turner's masterpieces or Narcissa Black.

The pureblood seemed comfortable enough walking through the masses that had congregated in central London. She eyed the muggles curiously, taking in their dress and their habits with polite detachment. Occasionally, a small smile would tug at her lips when she saw an exceptional display of tailoring in the windows of the small boutiques that dotted about. Hermione's quiet company was soothing in the hustle and bustle of the city that surrounded them. It must've been her happy energy that was making her feel so revived. It had worn off Narcissa over the past few weeks, and her tolerance had dipped. Now, a few minutes in Hermione's presence made her feel positively jubilant.

"I… I like this muggle fashion." Narcissa said almost tentatively as she nodded towards a Dior boutique that had an elaborate display of the most recent season of haute couture.

"You've never seen muggle high end fashion before?" Hermione asked curiously.

The pureblood blushed pink. "Mama and Papa never allowed… and when I go to the Ritz I usually just apparate into Green Park. Never had much reason to have a look…" She trailed off.

"We could go have a look round Mayfair one of these days." Hermione suggested lightly. "I think that's where most of the really fancy stuff is. Savile Row is supposed to be legendary." She added with a bright smile.

Narcissa considered the offer. Go muggle window shopping with a muggleborn. Her family were probably rolling in their crypt. Plus an evening with Hermione. In the open. "I would quite like that." She concluded with a satisfied smile.

Hermione bit her lip and gathered her courage. "So does this mean that your period of pretending I don't exist is officially over?" She asked casually.

Narcissa tried not to wince. "I've never done such a thing."

"Oh really?" Hermione asked sarcastically as they crossed the street.

"I just thought a little distance would do us both good. Clear our heads." Narcissa said aloofly as the flashy entrance of the restaurant came into their view. _Don't think about the kiss. Don't think about the kiss. _Narcissa drilled in her head. _Don't think about the kiss. Don't think about kissing her. Don't think about requesting a private parlour room and kissing her there. Just don't think about kissing. Kissing. Her. Hermione. Her Hermione. No. She wasn't her Hermione. Just stop it. _"Ah! We made it."

Hermione rolled her eyes, but still smiled warmly as she remembered the first time she had come to the restaurant with the pureblood. Between the nerves and the chandeliers and the unmoving ceiling mural, Hermione had missed what it was like to observe Narcissa walking in the opulent corridors. The ease with which she slid her travelling coat off and handed it nonchalantly to the waiter made her look like she was coming home.

"I'm glad we came." Narcissa said sincerely as they arrived at their table. She had certainly not planned her day to turn out like this. She'd had some errands to run in Diagon Alley when she passed the bookshop and saw Hermione smiling politely to a little wizard in green robes. And just like that, in a momentary lapse of reason, she went in, knowing all the while she was foiling her own plan to cut Hermione loose to be free from her. Narcissa blamed it all on gravity. Who could resist Hermione's pull, relentless like the planets' orbits. Objectively, it was all Andromeda's fault. Her inability to keep secrets quiet had led them on their collision course. In a rare moment of honesty she would be able to confess she was grateful for their path; had they never re-encountered, she would've probably unwittingly missed her. As if in Narcissa's life someone would be lacking. Less. Maybe they could pretend the kiss had never happened. Spare themselves the awkwardness and embarrassment of having to delve into all the reasons they couldn't be together. Just go back to their comfortable lull in their comfortable world of the Fortress, far far away from the maddening crowds.

"How've you been, Narcissa?" Hermione asked earnestly, momentarily disarming the older witch.

"Same old, same old." Narcissa said with a small smile, pouring milk into her tea. "I think Astoria's made it her mission to keep me company every waking moment of the day."

"How is she?" Grinned Hermione.

"She has too much spare time in her hands, if you ask me." She answered lightheartedly. "Practically had to sneak out today for some time alone, although goodness knows her heart's in the right place. Don't know what Draco'd do without her."

"Draco does seem completely smitten."

"That's putting it lightly." Narcissa said with a satisfied little smile. "How's Mr Potter?"

Hermione's own smile faltered. "Same old as well, unfortunately. Keeps waking me up with his night terrors but refuses to let me give him a check up. It's so typical of him. I saw Ronald the other day and he kept rubbing his chest in obvious pain but he just refused to acknowledge anything. Those boys are so stubborn." The Gryffindor sighed and took a sip of her tea. "I really must stop calling them boys." She added as an afterthought. "But I suppose it's appropriate considering they still act like children sometimes. You should've seen what they did last week! - bashed a bludger into Mrs. Black's portrait playing Quidditch indoors. Old hag didn't stop screaming for a week, even when her curtains were drawn. And that's not even mentioning the recklessly stupid stunts they pull when they're "testing" the latest brooms. And for Merlin's sake! Do you know they have weekly Bertie Botts competitions? They have a chart and everything where they keep scores of how many beans they can eat in a row before one of them gags… sorry, I'm rambling."

"Don't apologise." Narcissa said waving her off cheerfully. "Always happy to hear of Auntie Walburga being bashed with a bludger. Mother would've been ecstatic." Her face softened. "And… they'll always be your boys. Mainly because they'll never grow up. Trust me on that one."

"Oh c'mon, Draco seems like the epitome of poise and maturity." An amused Hermione replied.

Narcissa snickered. "Are we talking of the same boy who thought that an appropriate anniversary gift would be a season pass to the European Quidditch Premier? Poor woman got dragged around Europe every weekend for three months until she broke down and told him she hates the sport and could not bear the thought of watching another game in her life."

"Ouch." Hermione groaned sympathetically.

"I know. Can't believe she lasted that long. And Draco's still convinced it wasn't that bad of an idea." The pureblood sipped her tea. "But tell me, how have you been?" She inquired, studying the muggleborn's face - from the hesitant lip bite, to the way she tucked a curl behind her ear and looked around the table as if trying to find within the silverware something to defend herself with from the loaded question.

"Better now." She finally answered. _Better now_. _Better now that what? _Hermione asked herself exasperatedly. She glanced at Narcissa, aware she was being observed by the older witch. What a mistake it had been on the pureblood's behalf to take that kiss back, Hermione pondered; for yes, it was fashionable to say that all mistakes in a relationship were made by both parties. But that simply wasn't always true. One person could easily kill the other. And still, she was better now. Now that the Slytherin was back. A fact that irritated Hermione even further.

"I know you feel betrayed." Narcissa said quietly, as if reading her mind.

"Yes, that's a side effect of betrayal." Hermione snapped back.

Narcissa did not retaliate, only slumped a little in her chair, as if straining under the weight of all the lives she was not living, and stared at the muggleborn with dogged resignation. Hermione took a deep breath and ran her hand through her hair, watching the smart waiters quickly navigating between the tables and the muggles they served carrying out their business around them. "I've been thinking about this a lot, you know - your reasons - or, at least what I understand your reasons to be, and I admit, there is peace in dungeons, but is that enough to make dungeons desirable?" Hermione paused, and then added, more for herself than Narcissa. "The Greeks lived in peace in the cave of Cyclops awaiting their turn to be devoured…"

"You still don't understand, 'Mione." Narcissa said coldly as she gestured to a waiter to bring her something stronger. "I know what wickedness truly is - and shame. Goodness knows that when I peer into the secret places of my heart what I see there makes me faint with horror."

Hermione reached out her hand over the pristinely white table cloth but stopped herself before she touched Narcissa's hand. "Tell me every terrible thing you ever did, Cissy." She implored earnestly. "And let me love you anyway."

Narcissa froze with her auburn drink held daintily in her right hand. "Oh…" The gasp had escaped her lips before she could stifle them but Hermione's words had coiled and contracted around her chest and Narcissa knew this was the start of a slow, heavy death that in retrospect seemed absolutely inevitable. But was it the start? She wondered.

The pureblood drained the glass in one go. The shot of alcohol snapped her back into her senses and she remembered where she was.

"This is not a conversation we should be having in public." She drawled out as she stood up and threw three fifty pound notes on the table from her clutch. A waiter hastened to bring her coat meanwhile Hermione also stood up feeling slightly disorientated. The pureblood took her hand and wordlessly guided her out of the restaurant, swiftly making way to the park where she disapparated them as soon as she found a discrete tree to hide behind.

A second later and Hermione's senses were engulfed with grey - the sea, the sky, even the sand at her feet seemed drowned in the drab colour. Narcissa ignored the cold wind and the even colder water that the sea sprayed on them as they rushed down the pier to the Fortress. She finally dropped Hermione's hand when she slammed open the black door and a fire immediately erupted in the fireplace.

Still mute, Narcissa paced up to one of the portraits of her relatives and stared at it imploringly before moving on to the next, and the next, and the next… Hermione was beginning to understand that there were houses with such a sense of the personalities that built them, an all-pervading smell of the lives lived there, that both visitor and current inhabitant would always feel like a cross between a burglar and a ghost, spying on a private place with old secrets.

"No." Narcissa finally managed. "I will not let you ruin yourself for me. No." She stated perfunctorily, refusing to meet what was surely the younger woman's disappointed gaze. But Hermione threw her arms up in the air, not bothering to mask her fury.

"It is not your place to protect my honour or my reputation or whatever the hell it is you think you're protecting!" Hermione seethed. "You have no right whatsoever to take this choice away from me!" Hermione took a deep breath, hoping that the cackle of magic that was fuelling the roaring fire did not get out of hand. "Contrary to what you've let yourself believe I _do_ understand that I love you against reason. Against hope! Against even happiness!" The younger witch moved in front of Narcissa so that she was only a step away from the pureblood. "And yet I love you, Narcissa Black. I love you and the wizarding world be damned. I love you and I would not have it any other way."

Without thinking Hermione shoved Narcissa against the closed grand piano and kissed her roughly. Narcissa responded, fuelling the kiss with intense need, her hands greedily exploring the contours of Hermione's ribcage that her white dress kept hidden from her. Hermione's lips travelled towards her neck where she bit softly, earning a whimper. Narcissa languished in the fission of sensation. It didn't matter what happened next. Hermione deepened the kiss and felt a tremor, had she just made Narcissa shiver? The Gryffindor was convinced that the pureblood's soft pale skin was the worlds true source of gravity, pulling every part of her in. Colliding. Crashing into one another. Narcissa grasped Hermione's hips to steady herself. It was like the pureblood had never kissed anyone else ever before her, all others a timid practice compared to this.

"I have always loved everything about you." Hermione whispered into the crook of Narcissa's neck. "Even what I didn't understand." She peeled off Narcissa's soaked jacket shamelessly throwing it on the floor. "And I have always known that, at heart, I would have you no different." Hermione kissed her on the lips again, deepening the kiss as she cupped the pureblood's face. "Don't be foolish."

She let go of Narcissa, peeling the pureblood's hands from her waist. "Please, Cissy."

An out of breath Narcissa watched as Hermione straightened her dress. "I should go home. Harry's probably worried."

And just like that the muggleborn strode out unapologetically of the Fortress before the pureblood could even compose herself to say the word 'but'.

***mic drop***

**R&amp;R**

**P.S. Cyberbiscuits to anyone who can pick out the Buffy quote.**


	30. Chapter 30

**A drabble to celebrate 30 chapters! On account of this being a drabble it is un-betaed so all errors are on me. Also, my beta was the only one who picked up the Buffy quote in the last chapter! - [Jenny: I know you feel betrayed. Giles: Yes, that's a side effect of betrayal.] Never forget. Cyber biscuits for ithinkyourewonderful.**

Chapter 30

Narcissa closed her eyes and placed a trembling hand on her chest. Inhale. Exhale. She could feel her heart straining to burst free under her palm. Inhale. Exhale. Repeat the exercise. Narcissa dared not move from the support the grand piano afforded her, her legs felt so light she was sure they would not be able to bare her weight. Her whole body, in fact, was suffering from this sudden feeling of weightlessness, as if somehow the muggleborn had forgotten to return her essence to her on her abrupt departure. The little that remained of her was still burning up under the ghost of Hermione's touch. _Inhale. Exhale_. Narcissa forced the breaths out of her lungs, wondering if her skin looked as torched as it felt.

"That foolish girl." She gasped out, opening her eyes.

Narcissa took another deep breath and willed her composure to return to her. The pureblood took a tentative step and then another, shakily making her way to the cabinet that stood under the portrait of her great uncle Eridanus who was staring at her with jaw drop shock. Narcissa looked around at the other portraits of her ancestors and noticed similar expressions of trauma.

"Oh, do get over yourselves." She drawled out scornfully, pulling out a glass from the cabinet and pouring a rich brown liquid into it. "You all know as well as I do that hysteria is unbecoming."

She drained the glass in one go, ignoring the protestations the portraits were starting to hurl at her, and gracefully made her way back to the piano to pick up the items of clothing that had been so carelessly discarded. She kept silent as she casted drying spells on her travelling coat, even as one of the portraits started screaming "blood-traitor" in an ear piercing tone. That was probably Auriga Black, she thought distractedly, - the woman had such a penchant for dramatics that even two hundred years of hanging on a wall could not dampen.

Content with the state of her coat, she looked around for her gloves.

"The house of Black is doomed! DOOMED!" Screeched one of the portraits.

Had she forgotten her gloves at the restaurant? Narcissa wondered. Or had she picked them up before rushing out? Maybe she had put them back on as she had stood up from the table. She just couldn't remember.

"Another mudblood lover! Another mudblood lover! How could our legacy end like this?!" Another portrait cried to itself.

No, she had not been wearing them on the way back - she definitely remembered feeling Hermione's hand in her own. Those hands weren't as soft as hers; no, Hermione had working hands, made resilient after years of war waging.

"At least your mother isn't here to see the disgrace you've brought on this family." A portrait spat.

Of course! Narcissa thought at last. The gloves were in her clutch! She strode purposely to the table where the clutch lay to confirm the location of the gloves. They were one of her favourite pairs and would have been heartbroken if she'd lost them. She put them on slowly, feeling the fur that lined them and then proceeded to reapply her rich raspberry lipstick and straighten her hair.

Content with her restoration, she tilted her head up proudly and stared down icily at the portraits for a small measure of eternity until they all quieted under her impassive gaze. Narcissa knew there was a special contempt amongst her breed of people reserved for the fallen members of their own tribe. But she had not fallen and would therefore not rise to any bait that suggested so. Expectant silence filled the room.

"Better now." Narcissa said with a chilling smile. "For a moment there, we had almost forgotten our manners, hadn't we?" The pureblood tucked her clutch under her arm and checked her pocket watch. She was going to be late for a little catch up with the old gang if she didn't leave promptly. "Now, if you would all excuse me, I have engagements to attend to." She said aloofly, making for the door.

**R&amp;R!**


	31. Chapter 31

**Ithinkyourwonderful was a lifesaver with this chapter – cannot thank you enough.**

Chapter 31

Hermione rested her body on the door she had just slammed between herself and Narcissa. She could feel her temperature dropping as her muscles shivered painfully in an attempt to heat her body. She really should have brought her potions with her, she thought bitterly as her head started pounding nauseatingly in sync with the rough waves that were soaking her. The Gryffindor took a step forward, immediately regretting leaving the support the shiny black door had afforded her. She stumbled forward, regret giving way to obstinacy.

The curse that had been so carefully contained in her forearm was tearing her muscles as it ripped out of its carved cage. At last Hermione's survival instinct started to kick in and she knew she had to do something. The young witch looked around the Norfolk shore adamant she could not go back in the fortress without disappointing the woman inside. She could already see the anguish in Narcissa's face - terror and distress unconcealed in her pretty features like the time Hermione had escaped from her in Malfoy Manor. Malfoy Manor…. Hermione knew time was running out and she had to do something but for the life of her she could not stop thinking of Malfoy Manor and how she had looked up at the weeping figure of Narcissa as Bellatrix tortured her. She never wanted to make Narcissa cry like she had seen her cry in Malfoy Manor.

Malfoy Manor… with all the crying and the screaming and the curses and then… of course… the sea. Hermione fell on her unprotected knees and concentrated as hard as she could.

_Bill and Fleur's… Shell Cottage… Bill and Fleur's…._

With a loud bang that was drowned by the howling of the wind Hermione's body was hurled into pressurised spinning until she was smacked onto solid earth and her senses were once again engulfed with the smell of salty air. Hermione slowly pulled herself up and staggered up the shore to the cottage. The weathered door burst open as she fell on her knees again.

"_Bordel de merde…_" Fleur said gasping, feeling like she was caught in déjà vu. In an instant she pulled Hermione from the ground and half carried the girl inside. Muscle memory guided Fleur's actions as she conjured a towel and cast a drying spell over the muggleborn's clothes - why was she so wet?

"I'm so sorry, Cissy…" Hermione mumbled feverishly, "I'm so sorry."

Fleur raised her eyebrow curiously as she wrapped Hermione in thick warm blankets and laid her in the bed of one of the guest bedrooms. The older witch placed her hand on the muggleborn's forehead - she was far, far too cold. "Merde…" she whispered under her breath. Pointing her wand at the fireplace, a roaring fire erupted in an instant and she paced around the little room as she ran through all the strategies she could take against this familiar enemy. A hissing noise silenced her thoughts as she whipped around and stared at Hermione who was now openly calling for Narcissa. Fleur slowly approached Hermione's side and uncovered her arm with her wand. The scar had reopened and she could see how the muggleborn's blood was turning black with poison as the curse rejoiced in its hissing.

Wasting no time, Fleur placed her left hand on top of the wound and summoned the protection of all the old magic she carried in her bones. The wound screeched angrily and started burning her hand as the light in the room got brighter and brighter. Fleur bit her lip as she worked through the pain of her hand burning through the acidic fury of the curse and concentrated on conducting the light that illuminated the room into Hermione's arm.

And then… for a instant, everything seemed to stop, and Fleur could've almost sworn they were trapped momentarily in one of those old paintings that hung in her parents house. Not the moving wizarding ones, but one of those old baroque muggle ones by the likes of Caravaggio in which the scene was split so decisively between clarifying light and otherwise all encompassing black space.

And then the scene was over.

Reality settled back in with sobering mundanity. Hermione's body stopped shivering and the unearthly hissing had abated.

Fleur dropped, exhausted, into the armchair next to the fireplace and wiped her forehead that had beads of sweat trickling down her brow. She placed her wand on the little table next to her and looked at Hermione curiously - what was she to do with her? The young witch was sleeping peacefully now, her calls for the pureblood abated temporarily.

With a sigh Fleur pushed herself off the chair and took a pinch of floo powder and threw it into the fireplace. She hesitated for a second, wondering if she was overstepping. Rolling her eyes at herself she stuck her head in the fireplace decisively before she realised she had no idea which address she needed to call out.

"Malfoy Manor?" She requested hesitantly.

A lime green drawing room came into Fleur's view before a strikingly elegant woman in tailored tweed kneeled curiously by the fireplace.

"How may I help you?" The woman asked politely with a heavily clipped accent Fleur knew belonged to the old English aristocracy.

"I am looking for Narcissa Black," she responded with urgency, her own french accent exacerbated by panic.

"You're Fleur Delacour, aren't you?" The young woman exclaimed with a satisfied smile at having identified the stranger in her fireplace. "I never knew Cissy was a friend of yours!"

"Oui, oui, do 'ou know where she is?" Fleur snapped exasperatedly.

"Now that you mention it, I have no idea. She went out earlier today and I haven't seen her since. Whatever is the matter, Miss Delacour?"

"Zere 'as been an emergency and it iz imperative to find Miss Black," Fleur said hastily. "Can 'ou just get 'er? Tell 'er it is concerning a Miss Granger." The younger woman's jaw dropped open as if some sort of puzzle had just become clear to her, but before she had time to inquire, Fleur repeated herself in as commanding voice she could muster. "Woman, zis is an emergenceé! Can 'ou just get 'er?"

"Of course! Of course!" The young witch said patting herself down in search of her wand; once retrieved she settled comfortably, a large sappy smile appearing on her face as she cast her spell. "Expecto patronum!" A ghostly grebe appeared in front of her, "Cissy, Miss Delacour has just popped in my fireplace to tell me there's been some sort of emergency with Hermione Granger. Do please go to…" the pureblood looked at Fleur expectantly -

"Shell Cottage"-

"Shell Cottage immediately."

The grebe extended its large silvery wings and took off in flight.

"I'm Astoria Malfoy, by the way," the young witch said soothingly.

"Enchanté," Fleur replied awkwardly.

"I think I saw you at the War Commemoration ball, didn't I?"

"Er… oui."

"I met Hermione there, and I must say I am fond of her."

"Zat is excellent. Er… it 'as been a pleasure, madame Malfoi, but I must get back."

"Of course, of course," the younger witch replied, "I'll let you get back to it. Send Hermione my best wishes, I do hope she's okay."

"I will," Fleur said sincerely. "Good day."

"Yes, good day, Miss Delacour."

Fleur popped back into the room slightly disoriented from the bizarre conversation she had just had with Astoria Malfoy. The blonde went to check on Hermione but was interrupted by the door bell.

"Where is she?" Narcissa asked at Fleur's doorstep, all pleasantries forgotten.

"Zat room," Fleur said gently, pointing the pureblood in the right direction. Fleur followed Narcissa as she rushed into Hermione's room and quietly watched the way the pureblood tenderly cupped the muggleborn's face as she assessed how cold she was. "Oh, 'Mione, what have you done this time?" Narcissa chastised her softly before turning to face Fleur. "You performed a Veela ritual spell, didn't you?"

"Oui…?"

"Your hand gave you away," she explained with a sympathetic smirk. Fleur turned pink and automatically tucked her burnt hand in her pocket. Narcissa rolled her eyes, "Are all of Hermione's friends as stubborn as her?" She drawled sarcastically as she pulled a blue vial from her purse. "You should soak your hand in it before you scar."

Fleur took the bright blue vial with surprise. "Zank 'ou," she said at last.

Narcissa nodded distractedly as she returned her full attention back to Hermione. The muggleborn was as pale as the white dress she was in, resembling a carved ivory statue. Narcissa felt something clench in her chest and she had a clear and sudden understanding that she would not survive Hermione's death - she would want to die with her.

Narcissa shook her head, clearing her mind of morbid thoughts and pulled out all the potions she would need.

"I'll bring a cloth and a basin." Fleur said quietly as Narcissa carefully poured the first potion into the open wound.

"Yes, thank you, Miss Delacour." Narcissa tapped her wand on Hermione's forearm, slowly closing the wounds.

"Zat is incredible magic." Fleur said with open amazement as she passed the basin and towel to Narcissa.

"Thank you," Narcissa replied with a tight, embarrassed smile. She dipped the towel in the warm water and softly cleaned around the raw scar.

Fleur's astonishment grew as she came to grips with the scene in front of her. The Narcissa she had pictured in her head all these years did not seem fully in character; she was softer and gentler than she had imagined; but with her hair tied up in one of those complicated buns she had seen her wear before in the papers, she did not seem free of her character either. It was almost as if she was holding herself up with some sort of wavering reluctance towards the world at large. Fleur wondered what sort of mess those two had gotten themselves into.

Narcissa laid the basin next to the bed, having finished her ministrations. "She's going to be okay," she declared with a resolution so absolute it almost sounded as if she was trying to command the muggleborn back into good health.

"Yes, she is," Fleur supplied reassuringly.

"Thank you for calling me," Narcissa said earnestly, "I have no idea what she was think-" The pureblood stopped herself, remembering Hermione's hands hungrily running through her hair while her lips pressed hotly against her throat. Of course - she wasn't thinking. Neither of them were.

"She was calling for you," Fleur said quietly, "zat was why…"

Narcissa nodded tiredly. "This is my fault. I should've have noticed."

"We can not take ze credit for ze foolishness of our lovers," Fleur said gently. "'Ou look like 'ou need a drink." She offered before the pureblood could rebuke what she had said.

"Thank you very much for the offer, Miss Delacour," she said cordially, not having missed Fleur's gentle hint. "But I must return to my meeting. I left rather abruptly. Could - would it be too much trouble - is it pos-"

Fleur waved her arm nonchalantly at the Slytherin. "Do not worry, Miss Black. I will keep an eye on 'er and let 'ou know of changes."

"Thank you," Narcissa said sincerely as she stood up and gathered her implements back in her bag. "Good day, Miss Delacour."

**R&amp;R!**

**P.S. Sorry I couldn't respond to last chapter's reviews – I killed my keyboard.**


	32. Chapter 32

**What happens when you leave your laptop around inebriated people? Vast quantities of liquid will be spilled on the keyboard. You would have thought I learnt that the first time. Nope. Literally a week after they fixed the keyboard I did the thing again. You can blame customer service for how long it took to order a second keyboard. HOWEVER. I made this chapter extra long as a sorry. (Also, no beta with this chapter because I wrote this instead of my essay and I need to justify my procrastination by at least uploading this... o.O)**

Chapter 32

Hermione woke up feeling giddy. Exhausted, but extremely giddy; almost as if she had secretly tapped into the entire world's source of mirth and her body was overflowing with euphoria. Her vision took a while to adjust to the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the glowing embers in the fireplace; and she realised she was in a strange bed, not at all in the clothes she remembered last wearing. Hermione felt like laughing - did this mean she had had a one night stand? How daring of her! Would Cissy be pissed? Good, she thought devilishly to herself, maybe that would finally push the right buttons. The door opened welcoming in the smell of cooking and - Merlin and his most soggy pants! She had had a one night stand with Fleur! What would Bill say? What would Cissy say? Her horror was quickly replaced with hilarity, for, she supposed, if there was anyone to have a wild one night stand with it would be Fleur Delacour; for one, Ron would be eternally jealous. _Not bad, Granger. Not bad at all. That's top notch banter right there. _The muggleborn simply could not contain herself and she finally burst out laughing.

"'Ermione…?" Fleur asked tentatively. "How are you feeling?"

Hermione giggled at the question. "Spectacular," She said unable to hold back her laughter. "I am doing just spectacularly, Fleur. Thank you very much for asking - how attentive of you."

Fleur approached her and put her on Hermione's forehead. The younger witch immediately turned bright red - _weren't the nature of one night stands that they ended once the deed had been done?_ But then again, she thought to herself, she was dealing with the French now - there was bound to be a whole different continental protocol. Hermione giggled again as Fleur ran her hand over Hermione's left arm to inspect it and the older witch muttered something about pain killers and side effects. _Hmm… _Hermione frowned - her arm was all bruised and swollen and cut up, and… kinda really hurt. In the name of science she prodded it and immediately let out a long stream of curses that made Fleur raise her eyebrow.

"Oh Merlin!" Hermione gasped. "That _actually_ really hurt!"

"You are surprised?" Fleur asked incredulously.

The muggleborn proceeded to prod it again, laughing as pain shot up into her shoulder. "Yeah… that _really, really_ hurts. But in a kinda funny way."

"What in hades was in those potions?" Fleur muttered quietly to herself as she watched Hermione roaring with laughter. "You need something to eat," the older witch determined.

"UH! What did you make?" Hermione asked with childish curiosity, distracted from prodding her arm.

"Bouillabaisse." Hermione doubled over with laughter. "Er… okay," Fleur said perplexedly, wondering if she even wanted to know what was going in her friends potion upped head. "Why…?"

"Do you remember the first conversation we ever had?" Hermione asked the French witch as she regained her breath. The older witch decided to humour her friend and narrowed eyes in concentration as she put some more logs in the fire place. "Was it in ze tent during the first trial - or no - maybe during the second when we were rescued?" Fleur was surprised she couldn't actually peg their first encounter; however, in her defence, she actively tried not to think about her year in Hogwarts too much.

"Nope. Wrong." Hermione replied, regaining some of her composure as the intensity of her ecstasy rapidly decreased. "It was during the first night you arrived at Hogwarts. Or at least somewhen around then. BUT. You came over to our table and asked us for the bouillabaisse. Get it?" She asked, and immediately all the lost jubilation returned to her body as another cascade of laughter poured out of her. "I gave you the bouillabaisse when we met, and you give me the bouillabaisse after we have an affair, - the bouillabaisse has made a full circle!" Hermione said inciting in herself another round of laughter.

"_Quoi?_ You zink we had an affair?" Fleur asked from the fireplace completely nonplussed.

"I know. I really didn't peg myself as the type to wake up in unfamiliar beds but I guess we can never truly know ourselves. What are _you_ going to tell Bill? What am _I_ going to tell Narcissa?" Hermione suddenly asked with amused horror.

"Nozing. Because we did not sleep with each other," Fleur said factually, even though a smile was tugging at her lips and she was trying very hard not to laugh. Fleur studied the younger witch, carefully folding her arms as she approached the bed and passed her friend a thick jumper; her giddy slip about Narcissa had not gone unnoticed and she wanted to curse herself for not making a bet with Andy.

"Excuse me?" Hermione's asked perplexedly. "Then why am I in your bed wearing clothes that are obviously not mine?"

Fleur chuckled, quite smug over the fact she now had something over the muggleborn she would never let die down. "Come on, lover, I'll explain it all over your infamous bouillabaisse, because for starters you are not in my bed, you are in one of the guest bedrooms…"

Fleur led them into the kitchen passing Hermione a bowl of the soup as they sat down on the heavy wooden table and Fleur summoned a bottle of wine and a glass of water. Fleur's rustic kitchen had always had a calming effect on Hermione. She could see the sand dunes of the beach illuminated by the bright moon and the smell of the medicinal herbs Fleur grew on the windowsill had ingrained themselves in the Gryffindor's memory as a hallmark of safety. Shell Cottage was a place to say goodbye to past misfortunes and as Hermione took a large sip of the soup, she closed her eyes in delight and realised how much she had needed to come back.

"This is amazing, Fleur; and not just because it feels like I haven't eaten in days," Hermione said contently as she took a piece of bread the older witch offered her.

"Zat is because you have not eaten in days," Fleur supplied, dunking a small piece of bread in her soup. "And because Mama's recipe really is amazing…" she added thoughtfully before enquiring, "what is the last thing zat you remember?"

Hermione faltered in her motions as she blushed to the colour of the soup, and coughed awkwardly remembering how her lips had trailed Narcissa's neck tasting her soft skin; biting that place where her neck met her jawline and was it just her or was the room getting really hot as she recalled the way having Narcissa's body in her hands felt-

"Interesting." Fleur said amusedly. "Zat was also Miss Black's reaction."

Hermione's head snapped back up to Fleur and she felt sobriety quickly kicking in her system. The young witch quickly downed her glass of water, hoping it would help with how hot she suddenly felt. Then there was thought of trying to imagine Narcissa in Shell Cottage. What would the older witch look like in the soft lights that illuminated the little house? Would her sharp and piercing contours seem out of place within the comfortable walls? Or would the blacks, deep greens and dark greys of the satin she favoured be tempered by being far away from marble floors?

"From what I gather, after you left Miss Black you apparated here. You were a mess," Fleur said bluntly, serving Hermione another glass of water.

"What happened?" Hermione asked rubbing her forehead futilely trying to put the messy pieces of her memory in the right place.

"Narcissa suggested that you most likely forgot to take your potions," Fleur supplied, standing up to pour herself another serving.

Hermione face palmed herself. "Of course. How could I have been so stupid?" She groaned.

Fleur chuckled, "'ou can say that again. After I stabilised you I thought it best I called Narcissa - this is her area of expertise, not mine. She was beside herself with worry. Insisted on watching over you every night - I know she wanted to take you to her home but you had to stay where my ritual was cast until you woke up."

"Oh gods… I never-" Hermione couldn't even finish her sentence; the shame was overwhelming.

Fleur decided to give her friend some respite. "Narcissa seems nice," she said nonchalantly.

The young witch looked up at Fleur sheepishly and took another sip of her soup, "yeah… she is."

"Called it…" Fleur said softly with a devilish smile, unable to hold her tongue.

"No, no you haven't!" Hermione spluttered indignantly. "Nothing has happened. Technically. In the most official of senses."

"Oh…so that fresh hickey on Narcissa's neck the other day - is that not official enough?" The French witch scoffed, wondering why the younger witch was always so touchy with this subject.

The burning red returned brazenly to Hermione's features. Hermione opened her mouth to make an excuse, but then closed it again. She really didn't have the energy to come up with a half decent excuse and for once, just for once, why couldn't she confide in a friend? Hermione was starting to realise it was naive to believe she could keep the hurricane that was her and Narcissa contained within herself, so why shouldn't she take Fleur's extended hand for confession. "She doesn't want anything," Hermione finally confessed to the bouillabaisse. The Gryffindor would continue her campaign against all the reasons the pureblood threw at her, but sitting in the no man's land of Fleur's kitchen she could admit they were bloody good reasons, and maybe… she wouldn't win.

"For a person who does not want anything she is very willing to drop everything for you," Fleur replied with a shrug as she topped her glass of wine.

"That's because she's a nice person," Hermione muttered, rubbing her eyes. "And she's so nice she's probably going to kill me next time I see her, which I, of course, one hundred percent deserve," Hermione said morosely. "I knew I was already feeling terrible by the end of the signing - I was so reckless…"

"Surprise, surprise," Fleur said sarcastically. "Our 'Ermione was reckless."

"Oh, come on, Fleur! I am usually not that bad!" Hermione protested with a small guilty smile.

"Aha," Fleur scoffed, relieved to see the small smile on her friend's face again. "Your biography will be called, 'Hermione Granger: A study of reckless behaviour'. I am sure Miss Black would agree." Hermione almost pouted. "She will forgive you," Fleur added gently.

"I know," Hermione replied, studying the mussels in her bowl. Fleur was looking at her kindly, as if trying to think of solutions to help her out of her predicament with the Slytherin and suddenly the Gryffindor experienced an extreme urge to leave the cottage and run as far away from her friend's piercing scrutiny as possible; for perhaps Fleur already understood their problems - Fleur was the type of woman who knew, and knew and knew. The French witch herself had once been part of that same type of old guard aristocracy and knew the stories that occasionally slipped from Andromeda's sharing nature. None of these facts could be mentioned without inciting a deluge, and the great weight of the unspoken left Hermione frantic to run back into the wilderness like when she'd been eighteen. "Thank you so much for taking care of me, Fleur. I should get out of your hair, though - go home and rest up. Now that the painkillers have started to wear off I'm starting to get quite sore again."

"If you think I am letting you wonder your way home, you are very mistaken," Fleur said incredulously. "The ritual I performed on you was extremely invasive - you're not going to be able to summon magic safely for at least another week."

"But-"

"No 'buts' Hermione," the older witch said resolutely. "I 'ave put you back together once zis week, twice would be tempting fate."

"I am so sorry for all the fuss, Fleur." Hermione insisted earnestly, hoping the older witch understood she hadn't meant for her mess with Narcissa to interfere with her life.

"Ah, don't worry about it. Zis is what family is for. And it's a bank holiday weekend and Bill is on a business trip - he says hi, by the way, - this is the most interesting thing I could be doing with my time," Fleur said cheekily.

Hermione shot her friend a grateful smile and finished what remained of her soup.

"Okay, time to get you in bed." Fleur directed as she drained the remainder of glass.

"Yes, mother." Hermione bit back playfully as she moved her dish to the sink.

Hermione collapsed back into the bed, pulling the covers around her and closed her eyes. It was a comfortable bed, she decided while trying to heat her body up. She could hear the calm sea in the distance, reminding her of the sounds that accompanied every room in Narcissa's fortress. It was her favourite thing about the castle, she decided - the constant rocking sounds of the waves that engulfed the massive marble sculpture in the sea.

It felt like only a few minutes later when she was woken up by soft voices quickly speaking outside of her room. Hermione couldn't figure out what time it was but if the embers in the fireplace where any indication they had said hello to a new day hours ago. The door finally cracked open and somebody swiftly stepped in. Hermione felt the bed lower as the person sat on the side of the bed and gently put their hand on her forehead. The muggleborn clasped the warm hand that was cupping her cheek.

"Cissy…" She said sleepily, and before she could even put real thought into what she would tell the pureblood, the tremble in her chin that threatened with tears expelled the words she had been holding in since she woke up. "I am so sorry."

"Shhh… it's okay." The pureblood said soothingly, allowing herself to smile in relief for a moment. "You must sleep. I just needed to see you were okay."

"I want to go home, Cissy." Hermione insisted, her eyes still closed and her voice still distant as she tugged the Slytherin closer to her.

"Okay," she replied appeasingly. "I'll take you home tomorrow. I need to let you sleep now."

"Stay." Hermione implored as she tried to stifle a yawn.

It was the easiest choice she had been faced with in a lifetime, Narcissa thought to herself. With one word the muggleborn's wearied request had crumbled in her any desire to return to the Fortress, too exhausted to even bother with resistance. Instead, she kicked her heals off, vanished her makeup off with a flick of the wrist and slipped in the bed. Hermione pulled the pureblood into her arms and before the older witch gave in to slumber she distantly concluded that having sex with a person and sleeping with a person were two separate passions, not merely different but opposite. Love did not make itself felt in the desire for lust (a desire that could be extended to an infinite number of people) but in the desire for shared sleep (a desire that was limited to one person). Yes, Narcissa thought contently, that was how things were.

* * *

Narcissa extended her right arm out, feeling warm cotton embrace her outstretched limb which she automatically pushed herself closer to. This sleepy pleasantness was quickly replaced with slight confusion that distracted her from her usual morning demand for coffee, and as she opened her eyes to a sleeping Hermione, Narcissa decided that coffee could wait for a moment.

The chirping seagulls that soared outside the little cottage had woken her up, and for once she was grateful to the birds who had started their natter as soon as the sun had given its first hints of rising. In the pale light Narcissa gifted herself with a moment to feel the muggleborn's chest slowly rise and fall under her cheek and she wondered contentedly what madness she had allowed herself to partake in last night when she had accepted the Gryffindor's invitation to sleep. For this was madness, she resolved. Ill-advised, imprudent, and incautious madness. Her mother had warned her long ago about succumbing to such recklessness; and not only that, this was going against the most basic rule of survival, the rule that had allowed her to subsist for so long: never lift a finger for a lost cause.

The pureblood bit her lip. How gauche of her - she didn't want Hermione to be a lost cause. Gauche as it was, she really didn't want the miraculous whim of fate that had led her into the muggleborn's arms to be meaningless. But this whole line of thought was pedestrian, she reprimanded herself. How jejune to believe for even a moment in that muggle Virgil's lie - _omnia vincit amor_. For as novel as Hermione's wilderness was, wild things ended up in cages.

The birds trilled even louder outside, interrupting her thoughts.

_Noise has one advantage. It drowns out words,_ she thought to herself. And suddenly she realised that all her life all she had done was nothing but talk, write, scheme, concoct sentences, search for formulations and amend them, so in the end no words were precise, their meanings were obliterated, their content lost, they turned into trash, chaff, dust, sand; prowling through her brain, tearing at her head, they were her insomnia, her illness. And what she yearned for at that moment, vaguely but with all her might, was for the birds to keep on shrieking until it became absolute sound - an all-encompassing, over-powering, window-ratting din to engulf, once and for all, the pain, the futility of words. Noise to negate all sentences. She yearned to stay embraced with Hermione, yearned to never say or think another word, to let herself be fused with the thunder of noise.

It was time for coffee, she decided.

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	33. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Fleur poured steaming water into her large coffee press, releasing the wonderful smell of fresh Ethiopian coffee into the kitchen. The rich aroma curled further in the air as she pressed the plunger down slowly, and she briefly wondered if her guest even liked coffee. Her aloof guest… who had freely handed her medicaments the moment she had seen Fleur had hurt her hand, and who was always arriving from and departing to mysterious meetings. But between the older witches weariness and precise drawling tone, Fleur was starting to realise that the reality of Narcissa and Hermione being together was completely different from the playful abstract thought she had teased the younger girl with in the past. She had, in retrospect, naively imagined that such a liaison would not amount to anything more than a flirtatiously inappropriate rendezvous that would allow both witches to experiment with the other side of the social spectrum. But in glimpses Fleur had noticed small details of sincerity - discreet relief when the pureblood looked at the Gryffindor; the tight, almost angry way Narcissa clutched her diary when it commanded her away; the fresh flowers on the bedside each time the pureblood left; longing -

"Good morning, Miss Delacour," she heard a delicate voice say quietly from the doorway, interrupting her thoughts.

"Miss Black," Fleur acknowledged with a tired nod. "Coffee?"

"That would be marvellous," the older witch said with a tight smile, moving closer into the room.

The two witches remained silent as the coffee was poured into large mugs and Fleur summoned the milk and sugar. Now that the muggleborn's health was tentatively on the safe side, their main topic of conversation had been made redundant, and Fleur imagined that the pureblood shared an aversion towards small talk.

The French witch familiarised herself with the formal silence that permeated the room and watched as Narcissa took a sip of her coffee and tried to hide a content smile. The pureblood wasn't used to smiling, Fleur realised. Still, she thought, with or without a smile, the older witch was always disarmingly beautiful. With those high cheekbones, blood red lipstick, and regal posture she looked like an actress from one of those old muggle black and white movies Fleur had seen once - where the fast talking men were doomed and the beautiful women chain-smoked. She was, in essence, inscrutable; and Fleur could not finish making up her mind about her.

"This is not the first time she has come here almost dead," The French witch said flatly. Narcissa kept a neutral expression as she raised an intrigued eyebrow, waiting for her host to continue. "I do not know if she told you, but they came here after they escaped your Manor." Her tone was not accusatory, it was stated factually, as if she felt obligated to disclose these facts. "Ze brave elf, Dobby, is buried here."

Narcissa hid her discomfort by taking another sip of her coffee. She was caught between wanting to apologise and wanting to give the younger witch her most earnest gratitude; but both seemed inappropriate. For one, she had been as much a prisoner as the others, and on the other, it wasn't her place to give the French witch thanks.

"Zey never told us what happened," Fleur continued, not really sure what she was trying to say.

"I've learnt not to ask questions I can't bear to hear the answers to," Narcissa spoke up at last. Fleur understood the warning, and topped Narcissa's mug.

"We love her dearly," Fleur finally settled on. Narcissa looked into Fleur's sea grey eyes and nodded - she too understood the warning. "I won't bring her more harm," she said sincerely.

Fleur broke out into a disbelieving smile, "Miss Black, surely you cannot believe zat is something you can promise. You must know that is not the nature of these passions."

"Then what would you have me do, Miss Delacour?" The pureblood drawled out sarcastically as her lips curled into a defensively mocking smile. Fleur had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes, but she had always expected the pureblood to be a woman of a difficult nature.

"It is simple. Do not lead her to believe that you will give her more zan what you are prepared to actually give," Fleur said softly, standing up to put her mug on the sink. Narcissa bit her bottom lip - the only give away to the guilt that had just sickeningly pooled at the pit of her stomach. The pureblood's instinct was to lash back with a cold, scathing comment but the guilt that had now seeped into her bones stopped her. The younger witch was right. All she did with Hermione was take and take and take - her kisses, her breath, her happiness, even her sleep; and what did she give back in return? An apology that they could never be together. She finally realised that after a life privilege she had unthinkingly come into the bad habit of taking without deserving, for she now depended on the muggleborn's company; on her smile; on her humour; on her softness. But people did not always deserve what they needed. Unable to reply, Narcissa let her manners take over.

"Thank you, Miss Delacour," she said with an air of complaisance, "for all you have provided these past few days."

Fleur folded her arms as she leaned on the sink and gave the pureblood an appraising look before nodding knowingly. Narcissa was noble enough, Fleur finally decided. Yes, she was amongst the most controversial people Hermione could have ever dreamed up of choosing, but… at least one of them was aware of that fact. "It was my pleasure, Miss Black. 'Ermione is always welcome, as are any of her guests."

"Thank you," the pureblood repeated, this time more sincerely. The French witch flashed a smile at her and turned the radio on, filling the kitchen with the melodious voice of a wizard informing the world of the day's news. Narcissa closed her eyes and leaned back on the comfortable chair, allowing Fleur to go about her chores undisturbed.

"_Today we start with the concerning news of the small muggle village in East Yorkshire that has been haunted with a herd of dementors for the past two months. Ministry authorities are in a disarray with how to respond to the infestation…_"

What a waste of money, Narcissa thought tiredly. What a waste of energy, in fact - raising so much money for the ministry to create a special anti-dementor division had obviously been futile. Well, she couldn't be too hard on the ministry, after all, she too was slightly stumped with what to do with the rogue dementors the Dark Lord had bred during the war. _How to kill a creature that was never alive to begin with?_ She wondered as she heard Fleur moving about. Maybe it was a matter of energy conversion…

"_In our sporting section, rumours of illness have been floating around about key Holyhead Harpies player Miss Ginevra 'Ginny' Weasley after a series of blunders in the last two season matches…_"

"_Imbéciles cruels!_" She heard Fleur mutter angrily under her breath. "_Deux mauvais jeux et elle est malade._"

Narcissa didn't comment. The French witch was probably right - it was a stretch to believe that two bad games equalled sickness. She didn't know enough about the Weasley girl to - except. Narcissa opened her eyes in a startle before quickly masking any hints of distress from Fleur and closing her eyes again. There was only one thing she really knew about the Weasley girl and that was that Lucius, in one of his more epic moments of stupidity and pettiness, had given the girl the Dark Lord's diary. It had originally been given to her for safekeeping, but as a matter of pride, Lucius had insisted on keeping it himself, despite not really knowing what it contained. - And what for? Just so that on a whim of distaste he could throw it at Arthur Weasley's youngest offspring in an effort to cause an inconvenient minor curse.

Narcissa felt a headache looming closer and closer. For how many more years would she have to keep cleaning after Lucius? The man was long dead but the tendrils of his imbecility kept coiling around the world. Trust him, and only him, to inadvertently chuck a horcrux at an eleven year old girl. Horcruxes. _Dear Merlin_… Narcissa became very still, not daring to open her eyes. She could hear Fleur chopping away at the counter and the presenter merrily interviewing a ministry official.

Everything had finally clicked into place, and she was despairing. How could she have been so shortsighted? She was sitting in Fleur Delacour's house. The house the glorious golden trio had sought refuge after the incidents in Malfoy manor. The Manor in which Bella had screamed and tortured in order to find out how they had obtained the sword of Godric Gryffindor. The sword that could destroy a horcrux; which meant they must've been carrying the things around for weeks on end, if not months.

No wonder Hermione had started their investigation. They were all tainted by the blackest of black magic. They had played host to the Dark Lord' soul, in the case of Ginevra even poured hers into his until there could be no disentanglement. With his death they were now all carrying bits of necrotic soul inside them. Maybe with the exception of the Potter boy, Narcissa fathomed, for after all, he _had_ died. Maybe that had been enough to purge him. But what would happen to the other three? Hermione was already incredibly weakened by Bellatrix's curse… Narcissa almost sighed. _Of course_. The curse was so pernicious because of the horcruxes' residue; its branding.

The headache was in full swing now.

Narcissa opened her eyes as she heard a mug being placed in front of her.

"Ginger tea," Fleur said nonchalantly, "for the headache."

Narcissa looked up at Fleur with undisguised surprise. "Thank you."

"_De rien._"

She took a sip of the steaming tea and wondered exhaustedly how she would fix everything. Dementors, curses, maladies, charity balls, the old gang, Lucius' errors… the list seemed to increase daily. She remembered the old days. How innocent it all seemed now. _"Now that the Dark Lord has risen, things will change,"_ Bella had told her. And it had been true: the general euphoria lasted no longer than the first week. The muggleborns had been hauled away like criminals by the Dark Lord's forces, no one knew where they were, everyone feared for their lives, and hatred for the Ministry who had been unable to stop this force drugged people like alcohol. It had been a drunken carnival of hate. Wizarding towns were decorated with thousands of hand-painting posters bearing ironic texts, epigrams, poems, and cartoons of the Ministry and its auror's, jeered by one and all as a circus of illiterates. But no carnival could go on forever. And now… now that the show was over, it was necessary to pick up the pieces of all which they had destroyed in their revelry.

Narcissa closed her eyes again, hoping the ginger tea would kick in soon. She would take Hermione back to Grimmauld Place and then go back to the Manor; back to the books; back to planning; back to the ball she had tonight. Back to a frenzy of activity that would distract her from the fact that she had no idea what to do; no idea how to cure them; or what to do with the bloody dementors. Where was Prometheus' Palace when you needed it? She thought testily. Narcissa perked up at this thought… the Palace - there was a bold and reckless plan if there ever was one.

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**(Also, send me good internet vibes because I have an overdue essay and everything is thus horrible).**


	34. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

Hermione sleepily padded into Fleur's kitchen, stopping to observe Narcissa as she sat with her eyes closed in deep thought. In her mind, she imagined how she could walk over to where the older witch sat; how she could place her hand on the back of the pureblood's neck to break her out of her reverie; and then, just for pleasure, say good morning to her with a kiss to the cheek. But as things stood, Hermione decided against such tomfoolery, contenting herself with the thought alone.

"'Ermione, good morning," Fleur announced cheerfully, turning the radio down. Narcissa automatically stood up, unable to restrain the formality in her manners when caught by surprise. "Miss Granger, I trust you slept well," she blurted out before remembering their tangled limbs in the pale morning light and immediately blushed at her own choice of words. Fleur snorted out, trying abysmally to hide her amusement with a cough.

"Thank you, Miss Black," Hermione replied amicably, deciding to ignore Fleur's implicit suggestion, "I was in dire need for rest." Narcissa smirked disapprovingly at the understatement but let it slide. "Can I help with breakfast, Fleur?" Hermione asked.

"No, no. I am almost done," Fleur replied, flapping her away. "There's coffee on the table, but I have boiling water for tea."

"Don't worry, I'll get it."

Narcissa watched as Hermione set about to make her first cup of tea of the day; she was wearing old jeans and a thick purple jumper that was a little too large for her, whilst her hair was bundled up in a loose bun. She looked so young. Hermione leaned languidly on the counter, yawning as she stirred in the milk, taking the croissants Fleur passed her with a grateful smile. The two witches seemed so at ease with the situation, Narcissa couldn't help but feel like an intruder in the scene; but then Hermione sat in front of her, passed her a plate and offered her a croissant and the feeling of intrusion vanished. Suddenly, it was like when they had shared breakfast at the Fortress - the sleepy smiles; the smell of fresh coffee; the sound of the sea and the rustle of newspaper. Longing. Narcissa pushed away that train of thought, pulling her diary out to distract herself, only to realise how exhausted she was - those handful of hours last night had obviously not been enough.

The Slytherin looked up from her notes, but Hermione had already hidden an enamoured smile and was pretending to read the paper intently. The pureblood realised she was being watched, and blinked sleepily even as she tried to pretend she was fully alert. Hermione could not help but think that the supposedly inscrutable Narcissa Black could be disarmingly cute sometimes. She propped her head on her hand and smiled warmly at the pureblood. "What do you have on today?"

"Oh you know, a hundred things to do and a hundred people to meet," Narcissa said with a playful smirk. Hermione chuckled, remembering the shared joke. "Brunch with Vi Bulstrode, meeting with the head of the anti-dementor division, dinner with the minister for experimental magic, and then… the Wizengamot annual gala," Narcissa read out loud.

"Vi Bulstrode?" Hermione asked with knitted eyebrows. "Not related to Millicent Bulstrode by any chance?"

"Yes - they're cousins."

"Oh golly," said Hermione, "we once got in a fist fight when duelling in second year. She had me in a headlock until Harry pulled her off of me."

"Dear Merlin!" Narcissa exclaimed.

"That's not even the worst part," Hermione said openly laughing now. "Have we told either of you the polyjuice potion story?"

The French witch joined them at the table with plate full of chopped fruit and yoghurt. "I don't think so," she replied curiously as the pureblood shook her head.

"It's still so embarrassing," Hermione shared with mirth playing in her eyes. "It was in second year, as well. Harry, Ron and I were investigating the Chamber of Secrets and for some reason I came to the conclusion that the only way to get more information was by brewing some polyjuice and sneaking into the Slytherin common room." Narcissa raised an intrigued eyebrow, quietly impressed that the muggleborn had tried to make such a complex potion in her second year. "Somehow, I managed to actually brew it correctly, but, thinking I had taken a hair from Millicent Bulstrode's robes I accidentally turned myself into her cat." The three witches laughed at the revelation. "Not my brightest moment."

Narcissa leaned into her seat, happy to listen to the two witches chattering as she imagined a twelve year old Hermione turning herself into a cat to get into the Slytherin common room. Narcissa bit her lip to conceal a laugh - of course, they had probably thought her Draco was the heir of Slytherin. The antagonism those four shared was flabbergasting at times. She remembered how Draco would come home for the holidays huffing and puffing that Hermione had beat him in all the class tests and would force her and Severus to tutor him on all the upcoming material. But she couldn't blame them for their animosity - the Malfoy and Weasley feud went back generations. _"I've never trusted a Slytherin,"_ she had heard one of the Weasley's say during the War Commemoration Ball. Narcissa had wondered whether that was supposed to bother her. In a way, it was natural for people, especially the Weasley's, to dislike her house - they had the predisposition of confusing ambition with arrogance; they saw cunning and couldn't envision intelligence, instead all they could imagine was the clever curve of a knife. Cunning and cutting did sound so remarkably alike after all. It was no wonder Percy Weasley ended up in Gryffindor when he would've been at home in Slytherin.

"More coffee?" Fleur offered the pureblood.

"No, thank you."

"We should get going," Hermione posited gently.

"Yes," Narcissa agreed absently, "we should be getting you home." And as the words came out of her, the pureblood suffered a heart drop of disappointment. Home. Home for Hermione meant Grimmauld Place. Of course. Of course. She refused to acknowledge that for a moment her reason had lapsed and she had only thought of taking the muggleborn back to the Fortress.

"I'll go get my stuff," Hermione declared as she stood up and left the kitchen.

"Oh, Miss Delacour. I almost forgot," Narcissa said pulling out a thick white envelope. "It's my birthday next month, and there's to be a party - formalities, and all," she said almost self-consciously. "I would, however, be delighted if I could count on your company."

"Thank you," Fleur replied, taking the invitation, "I would love to attend."

Hermione poked her head in the kitchen, "I'm all set."

Narcissa nodded at muggleborn, following her out of the cottage and onto the sand dunes of Cornwall. The Slytherin took a deep breath, feeling the fresh morning air wash away the last traces of her fatigue. She had plans. A hundred things to do. A hundred people to meet. Everything was going to be okay. She would find a cure - by any means necessary, and then everything would be fine. Narcissa steeled herself even as Hermione took her hand by surprise and guided her out of the cottage's wards. The pureblood watched the muggleborn's peaceful face as they walked further on to the beach, and marvelled at how deceptively healthy she looked; almost as if the curse on her arm wanted to trick them all into believing it wasn't there.

They finally stopped where the sea kissed the land goodbye and Hermione faced her.

"Grimmauld Place?" Narcissa asked her. Hermione nodded and the pureblood apparated them into London.

The two witches quietly made their way through the Georgian town houses until they stood in front of the Black family's London residence.

"Come in," Hermione invited the older witch with a cheeky smile, "I have something to give you. I was originally going to send it to you, but now that you're here I can just give it to you."

Curiosity guided the older witch inside the house. It was brighter than she remembered. "You kept all the original features." Narcissa noted as she gestured at the row of house elf heads.

"Neither me nor Harry had the heart to take them down after Kreature started wailing at the suggestion," Hermione explained apologetically, putting her coat on a hanger. They walked up the stairs, Narcissa half expecting Regulus to pop out one of the corners with his dashing grin and latest plan of mischief.

Hermione blushed bright pink as they walked into what Narcissa deduced was her room. "So, yeah, um, this is my room."

"Is that your infamous sleeping draught?" The pureblood asked with amusement, moving towards the cauldron. "You should add more wormwood - give yourself at least a minute to sit down before it kicks in."

"That's not what the recipe says," Hermione replied curiously, pulling out her old potions textbook to confirm. Narcissa resisted the temptation to laugh, "no, it doesn't, but Severus and I found it doesn't tamper with the rest of the recipe." Hermione nodded, grabbing a quill and quickly making a note in the textbook.

"Excellent. Thank you," the muggleborn said, setting the book down and picking up a brown parcel that was waiting on her desk. "Anyway, this is for you."

Narcissa took the parcel, placing it carefully in her bag. "Thank you, Hermione."

The orange leaves in the wallpaper danced merrily as the two witches stood awkwardly, their last encounter playing vividly in both their minds. A fit of boldness surged in Hermione, "are you still convinced…?" She couldn't finish the question, allowing silence to describe the complexity of their impasse. Narcissa's expression fell with regret. "We could just keep it to ourselves," Hermione persevered. "It's nobody's business but ours."

"You deserve more than that," Narcissa cut in, "you should never be made ashamed." The pureblood looked down at the floorboards remembering how she still burned with the shame Lucius brought her. Hermione walked up to her, carefully placing her hands on the Slytherin's hips and leaned into the older witch's neck, "you underestimate how shameless I can be."

Before she could stop herself, Narcissa's arms had wrapped themselves around Hermione's small frame and she felt her heart's resolve break down with each kiss Hermione placed on her neck. It was like fire was eating at the soft marrow of her bones. It was the cessation of all plans - of all future. With Hermione's hands slowly inching up her ribs Narcissa gave the whole world up. Her spine shuddered when Hermione grazed her teeth over the delicate skin where her pulse sang the strongest and without warning, the pureblood tugged at Hermione's purple jumper, urging her to take it off. The Gryffindor flashed her a brazen grin, taking the garment off in one motion revealing a thin white cotton shirt and hunger in her eyes.

"There is no remedy for this," Narcissa whispered, finding the muggleborn's mouth and kissing her deeply. "I'm okay with that," Hermione gasped back as she pulled the Slytherin's black gown off.

"Fine then," the pureblood replied cockily, "we'll let them burn at the altar."

"Lets," Hermione agreed triumphantly, pulling them closer to the bed and headlong into the love by which they were longing to be captured. Relief mixed with ecstasy as one by one each piece of clothing was removed exposing pale skin and the troublesome chains that tied both women to each other. Narcissa ran her hand up the muggleborn's soft thigh, savouring the contours, tasting every ridge. "Late have I loved you," she muttered to Hermione's breasts, taking one into her mouth and eliciting a loud moan from the woman underneath her; shattering any deafness left in her. As the Gryffindor pinched and played with her nipples, Narcissa understood that she could no longer have secrets - she would betray her loneliness for Hermione; exhibit her heart, destroy all mysteries, beginning with her own.

Hermione took a deep breath, filling her lungs with Narcissa's rich, sultry perfume and realised she needed to be closer to it. She needed to trail every inch of the Slytherin's marble skin with her mouth. She needed to lavish all her energy into making the pureblood cry out in delight. Her hand travelled south, teasing Narcissa with the promise of entering her folds. The pureblood moaned, digging her fingernails into Hermione's back as an unconscious protest against the Gryffindor's crimes of courage. Hermione slowly made her way down the pureblood's body, kissing and sucking everywhere she could until she reached Narcissa's dripping cunt and finally, whilst looking straight into her incisive blue eyes, tasted her.

Immediately, Narcissa's back arched with intoxication - or was it disintoxication? The Slytherin didn't care anymore, helpless as her legs trembled under Hermione's ministrations. The muggleborn returned back up, pulling on Narcissa's hair as she kissed her - allowing the older witch to taste herself in Hermione's mouth. But then the Gryffindor caught sight of Narcissa's blissful expression turning into a devilish smirk and suddenly she felt soft fingers expertly playing with her clit. "Cissy!" She cried out as the pureblood continued her assault. "Cissy!" She repeated, barely able to catch her breath long enough to exclaim the two syllables.

"Yes, darling?" Narcissa replied as nonchalantly as she could, immediately feeling a firm bite on her neck in retaliation.

"Cissy! Please?" Continued the gasps from the muggleborn, the volume ever increasing each time the pureblood's index finger teased with entering her. Narcissa kissed Hermione deeply, and slowly, slipped a finger inside of her, wondering as she did, how it had escaped her notice that she adored the muggleborn this much. The Slytherin's mouth lowered back to the muggleborn's breasts, deftly slipping another finger in with the first and curling them inside Hermione, making the muggleborn cry out with pleasure.

Narcissa pulled Hermione's body into her arms, breathing in the muggleborn's soft sunshine smell that was now intermingled with her perfume. "I don't want to move," she confessed.

"Lets not then," Hermione agreed, pulling the covers over them as they dozed off, both content with leaving the ashen world for some sleep.

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**(So nervous to know what you guys make of this chapter).**


	35. Chapter 35

**You guys have no idea how many versions of this chapter I wrote. It was so deceptively difficult. Thanks for your patience though.**

It was cotton sheets. The sound of muggle automobiles in the distance. The honeysuckle smell of the sleeping drought bubbling on the table. It was familiar. It was foreign. It was the comforting ache of tired muscles resting in the sun. Her warm skin against slightly colder. It was rest while the city around them busied away like buzzing bees. She could stay like this forever.

A sharp movement on Narcissa's left woke her up from her decadent slumber. She opened one eye with the intention to glare down whatever had interrupted her sleep, but quickly opened both when she realised that Hermione's previously blissful face was scrunched up in pain. Narcissa gently propped herself higher on the pillows so she could comfortably pull the cold Gryffindor closer into the warmth of her arms. The younger witch didn't rouse from the movement, her left arm now securely wrapped around Narcissa's bare chest but the stress on her forehead was still visible under the tangled mess of her chestnut curls. The older witch trailed a lazy finger over the light scars that dotted about the milky expanse of Hermione's back, running through the toxicity of all the potions and enchantments Hermione had had in the past week and reminded herself that there was nothing more she could give her to soothe the pain in the coming days. On the other hand, Narcissa reckoned with a distinct flair of annoyance, maybe this would teach the Gryffindor that a jovial approach to her treatment was not in anyone's interests.

Experience told her there wasn't anything she could do about it. The muggleborn would have to decide whether to continue being this reckless with herself or not. She could nudge gently, politely remind her about treatment regimes; damage control. But denial was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Narcissa couldn't begrudge the Gryffindor's carelessness; she understood that for a woman so used to being a force of nature, being weakened was a concept hard to accept.

Resignation against the younger witches stubbornness won over. Narcissa closed her eyes and decided to focus on the sinfully sumptuous sensation of Hermione's weight resting on her; the steady rise and fall of her chest under her hand; the spring sun hinting at summer as it poured through the open window. Narcissa idly wondered when her good conscience would finally wake up and bring with it the crashing force of reality. Maybe they _could_ elope to Paris, she thought whimsically - anything in an effort to avoid the catastrophic consequences this would bring, or at least avoid the messy questions of what were they to each other? A Modern Mistresses' Guide to Manners had not covered this particular topic: what should the relationship between a widowed, former follower of the Dark Lord, pureblood and a muggleborn war hero constitute? The sentence alone was an awkward mouthful. It seemed equally inappropriate to tell anyone as it was to keep it a secret.

Her mind wondered back to that bible of etiquette she had memorised as a child… "_Society is a severe censor, pitiless and remorseless. The witch who has once fallen, the wizard who has once lost his honour, may repent for years; good society shuts its doors on them once and forever." _

Paris was sounding more and more reasonable.

An amused smirk curled on the pureblood's lips as she sarcastically imagined how that would play out. First they would forsake their friends and family; then, take the train to Paris from St. Pancreas that left every hour at platform 7 and 3/9's; elope; vow never to return to Britain again; take lodgings in the 7th arrondissement; introduce themselves with pseudonyms; quickly realise that the muggle tourists are unbearable; realise even quicker that the French in general are unbearable; return to Britain; be officially shunned by good society; slowly come to resent each other; die alone.

Maybe Paris wasn't always such a good idea after all, she drawled in her mind. And not just that, she had Hermione's brazen promise to contend with. The memory alone of the way she had whispered the words into her ears was enough to disarm her and spike her heart rate. _"You underestimate how shameless I can be…"_ she had vowed, her voice sounding like the auditory equivalent of bourbon mixed with honey and touched by smoke.

A gust of cold spring air blew in and Narcissa found herself quickly scrambling to cover the younger witch under the safety of the blankets. A well aimed wrist flick at the window closed the contraption, preventing further intrusion from the elements. Narcissa resumed her position with her head nestled behind Hermione's, her heart still beating rapidly from the onslaught of wind against Hermione's frail body.

Ice cold fear trickled down her spine and the memory of Hermione lying broken on Fleur's guest bed inundated her mind. It had been _such_ a close call.

It was in that moment, for the first time, that Narcissa realised how scared she was, with Hermione's cold skin pressing against her own; the Gryffindor's hands clenched in fists like a fighter, with their earthquaking. Hermione was stunning - she smelt of vanilla and the opening of a flower and the magical residue of all the healing potions she had had. She wasn't going to let go of her, Narcissa concluded. This was what she wanted, this drowning. Although she supposed she still shouldn't have given in, it shouldn't have been this soon, not this blooming without words, without a cure, a plan A let alone a B or a C… without a fight. But Hermione's skin was battle worn; Narcissa's was soft and unmarred, the contrast unavoidable as she ran a soothing hand over Hermione's thinned body, adding to her worries that the younger witch wasn't eating enough.

"You're awake," Narcissa stated, pretending not to be surprised as she felt one of Hermione's hands sneakily roaming over her skin under the covers.

"Have been for a while," Hermione replied cheekily, an amused smile finally betraying her. "Didn't want to move. Too comfortable."

"How are you feeling?" Narcissa asked casually, trying to pass the loaded question as innocuously as possible.

"Drained. Both in a good way and a slightly concerning way, but that's probably just the magic," Hermione replied lightly, turning in the pureblood's arms so she could place a kiss on the Slytherin's neck. As Hermione's languid kisses slowly reached her mouth, Narcissa knew that her reason had surrendered to this force, these lips. The pureblood ran the tips of her fingers over Hermione's ribs, eliciting a gasp; the older witch felt a tug of fear in her bones: gasping sounded too much like not breathing.

"Didn't you have a hundred things to do today?" Hermione asked her mischievously as she straddled her hips, giving the pureblood a full view of Hermione's taut body. "A hundred people to meet?"

Distracted by the compulsion to touch and trail and tease Narcissa emitted a quiet groan at the reminder. "Why did you have to remind me?"

The muggleborn lowered herself to place a chaste kiss on the older witches lips. "Trust me - being headlocked by a Bulstrode is not as funny as it sounds."

"Fine," Narcissa acquiesced, somehow making the monosyllable sound like it was accompanied by a dramatic drop of a teacup back onto its saucer.

"I promise I won't do anything rash in the meantime," Hermione teased as she extracted herself off of Narcissa.

"You better not, Miss Granger," she drawled with a hint of seriousness, "zero magic."

"I know. I know," Hermione quickly defended herself, "not for a week."

"Or two."

"Or two," she echoed as a peace offering.

"Good," Narcissa said with unhidden satisfaction, standing up to find her clothes. "You need as much rest as you can get." The message barely registered as Hermione's lips twitched with appreciation, her eyes shamelessly absorbing the image of Narcissa's naked frame stretching as she slipped into her black gown, forgoing anything underneath. "Before I go," Narcissa began, turning around to catch Hermione's hungry expression. The pureblood smirked, amused at the obvious effect she was having on Hermione. "Would it be too forward for me to request to borrow a book from your library? I know where it is. I just need to pop down and get it."

Hermione laughed, burying her head in the pillows to stifle her laughter until she could reemerge with some semblance of serenity. "Cissy, after what we just did I don't think anything between us can be considered too forward."

Narcissa rolled her eyes but couldn't help the amused smile that played on her lips. "I'll take that as a yes," she said, bending down to press a kiss on the Gryffindor's forehead before straightening up and magically tying her hair back in an effective bun. "I'll be right back."

The Slytherin padded down the corridor, feeling the house's draft on the exposed skin her gown didn't cover. Time melted away as she quickly trailed down the stairs, taking a left before she encountered Auntie Walburga's portrait with practiced ease, and finally opened the door to the little but powerful library the Black family had hidden in this residence.

Narcissa smiled as she surveyed the cosy atmosphere of the library, from the pillows and throws that scattered about the room to the stacks of books that Hermione had undoubtedly added to the collection. It too did not escape her notice, the rich red Gryffindor banner that had been tacked over a Slytherin one above the fireplace. But above all, Hermione's warm presence permeated the previously austere room from her memories. It took no effort to imagine the young witch sitting on the table, sleeves rolled up and hands covered with black ink, signalling that Hermione was lost to the physical world. Within that bubble of concentration, Narcissa knew that Hermione could study for hours undistracted, eyes tracking from book to diagram to scribbled notes, lips sometimes moving soundlessly beneath the play of her eyes and eyebrows narrowing and focusing and parsing. Narcissa could see in those moments when Hermione drowned out the world how days and weeks and months of grinding research were carried out so diligently. The hours spent in her own head spent absorbing and listing information, breaking down established ideas and analyses into tidbits serviceable as building blocks for something new: bridges connecting the familiar in unfamiliar ways; pathways forging into the depths of the unexplored. How nights would bleed into mornings along the strings of sentences yielding into the page from her careful writing; "new possibilities" that would be revised and rethought and sometimes scrapped together in a more lucid state. The way her research would come to dominate every waking thought, even the spurts of dreaming snagged from the jaws of stress and exhaustion; how it would colour and dictate her every interaction and conversation, but in such a manner - Narcissa imagined, predicated - that would be captivating. It would be knowledge that Hermione needed to share, to explicate, to simplify and complicate; her hands punctuating points and theoretical knots, all of her frenzied with eagerness to impart understanding.

All Hermione needed was health.

Narcissa consciously straightened her posture and reorientated herself in the room, hoping that Hermione hadn't changed the order of the library too much during since her residency. She approached the bookcases, running her hands over the spines of the large leather-bound books she had played around with as a child. Titles stood out to her like old friends calling her name; encyclopaedias eliciting memories of weeks spent with Regulus trying to outdo each other with the most bizarre spells whilst they wondered what their siblings were up to at Hogwarts.

Still sitting in the place it had been left over thirty years ago, Narcissa levitated the small book from its place in the top corner of the second bookcase next to the window. The pureblood quickly flicked through "A Guide to British Wizarding Birds", relieved that the annotations scrawled throughout the text remained unchanged.

"Hermione, I was just wondering-"

Narcissa whipped round to face a stunned Mr Potter, standing by the door in boxer shorts and an overlarge shirt, a bowl of cereal in hand.

**R&amp;R!**


	36. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

Hermione closed her eyes the moment Narcissa gently closed the door behind her. The young which stretched languidly in the white sheets, inhaling the husky smell of Narcissa which clung to the cotton she nuzzled in. Opening her eyes again to the sun bathed room, her attention was caught by all their abandoned layers of clothing still scattered over the dark wooden panels… softly, her attention wondered back to the sensation of Narcissa's black lace being undressed under her fingers. _How ravishing she is_, Hermione thought. Everything about her was ravishing. And menacing. Those colours of hers; that spectrum of greens to black. Life to death. Her striking dark hair. Her cheekbones - pronounced, emphasising a wrinkle which her smile created beside her mouth.

With a lazy sigh, Hermione pushed herself off the bed in search for something to cover herself with. As she pulled an extra large Gryffindor shirt over her head, two soft knocks on her door demanded her attention.

Quickly slipping her pants on she called out, "come in!"

Narcissa opened a small fraction of the door, clearing her throat as she tried to school her expression - it was the closest to uncomfortable Hermione had ever seen the older witch look.

"Mr. Potter is here."

Hermione's eyes widened with shock and a trickle of shame ran down her spine - how could she have forgotten about Harry? The young wizard walked into the room, leaving Narcissa by the doorway.

"Hermione…" Harry began, placing his half empty bowl of cereal on the mantlepiece. "What the…?" He pointedly looked at all the clothes that lay damningly on the floor. Hermione winced giving her friend all the confirmation he needed. "Malfoy's mum?" Hermione's wince stiffened.

"Harry -"

"_Malfoy's mum_?" He repeated emphatically. Hermione shot Narcissa a smile of nervous condolence, a smile that said 'I love you' and 'please don't be hurt'. The Slytherin smiled sardonically back at her, not budging from her position by the door. She had no intention of leaving until Hermione said so, like some captain, waiting to drown with his ship.

"She's Hippocrates," Hermione supplied quickly, "you know, the person I've been working with." Hermione searched his green eyes, looking to find her best friend amidst the paradigm shift that was playing on his features. "This is important to me, Harry." She pressed on urgently, looking at Harry with an expression that reminded him of when they were children: it was the look Hermione got when she was projecting utter confidence in what she was saying, but couldn't quite hide how desperately she cared about Harry's opinion. She needed to know that Harry wasn't upset; that Harry didn't think she was weird or a horrible person. "_She's_ important to me."

"Bloody hell," Harry exclaimed with a sigh. "Well, I didn't see this coming, to say the least."

"Harry!" Ron's booming voice echoed from somewhere downstairs. "What's taking you so long?! Is Hermione here?!"

"Harry! Why didn't you tell me Ron is here?!" Hermione hissed at her best friend, lightly hitting him on the shoulder. _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck._ Caught between her fight or flight response, instinct propelled her to start scooping up all their clothes as if she was cleaning up a crime scene. Narcissa opened her mouth to intervene, but before she could get the words out Hermione had unceremoniously shoved all their clothes into the cupboard, stealing away any possibility of escape for the pureblood.

"Well I'm sorry, I kinda got distracted by the fact that you're shagging Malfoy's mum!"

"Narcissa, Harry. She has a name. _Narcissa_. She's not just 'Malfoy's mum'." She snapped back at him as Ron's cantankerous footsteps loomed closer.

"Fine, _fine_. But when were you planning on telling me?"

"I don't know, Harry!" Hermione exclaimed, pacing around the room looking for anymore incriminating evidence she could hide. "Can you just go stall him?"

"I think it's too late for that," Narcissa drawled coldly from the doorway, still not quite sure if the situation amused or embarrassed her, for after all - had she not been warning the muggleborn that this was precisely what would happen?

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Hermione heard Ron blurt out bluntly. The two Gryffindor's rushed out into the corridor, putting themselves between Ron and Narcissa.

"Mate, what's going on here?" He asked Harry.

"She's my guest, Ron, so if you'd excuse me," Hermione said trying to sound nonchalant.

Ron scoffed. "Since when are the likes of her your guests?"

Harry sighed, Narcissa rolled her eyes and Hermione balled her fists as she felt the ache of disappointment in her old friend crash into her body.

"Mate, lets go downstairs, this is none of our business," Harry tried reasoning, putting his hand on Ron's shoulder.

"Nah, nah, I want to know what's going on here." He replied, shoving Harry's hand off him. "What are you doing with Hermione?" He demanded from Narcissa. The Slytherin did not rise to his baiting, only giving him a steady stare that was evidence of an innate confidence that unsettled Ron to the core.

"I would advise you to listen to your friend, Mr Weasley," she chastised him softly. "Neither Hermione nor I owe you an explanation of our personal affairs."

He was familiar with her tone of voice - it was that clipped enunciation which had always been used to speak down to his father. He was also familiar with the look she was giving him - it was the look Lucius Malfoy had always used when surveying the Weasley family, needing no words to convey his superiority, their inferiority. Boyish shame rushed through Ron's body; old wounds of humiliation sliced open despite the protection of his expensive robes. And for a second of blind fury, all he could see was Draco Malfoy in Narcissa's features. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the revolting feeling of disgust that was churning in his stomach - disgust directed at her for making him feel that way; but just as acutely, perhaps more so, the almost unbearable feeling of disgust with himself for still feeling like just another red head in a hand-me-down robe. Inevitably, shame gave way to self-righteousness and in a flash, he determined he would not be backing down this time.

"Bollocks. I have every right to know what a death eater is doing with my friend."

"Ronald! How dare you!" Hermione retorted immediately. "Narcissa _is not_, and never was a death eater!"

"Oh, really?!" He bellowed back furiously, disbelief painting his expression - how could Hermione betray him like this? He was on her side. "Am I the only who remembers her standing by as her sister tortured you? Am I the only one who remembers the way you screamed and screamed? Or have we all forgotten how she was going to let Fenrir Greyback have you? Or how she was going to sell us to Voldemort? SO FORGIVE ME if my definition of death eater isn't as apologetic as yours."

"Ronald Weasley," Hermione began, her tone so quiet and cold it immediately cut through Ron's outburst. "Just stop talking," she hissed at him, so angry and disappointed in him she could barely form words. "You are making a fool of yourself."

Ron took a step back, his anger forgotten from the shock of Hermione's fury. "Why are you defending her?" He asked her in a small voice. Then, for the first time, his eyes regarded both witches calmly - from the messy hair, the bare legs, to the blooming hickey's - "No, no, no, no," he said with a hysterical chuckle, "this can't be happening."

"Ron," Harry begged, "lets just go."

"Harry, Harry," he interrupted, "they're shagging."

"Ron -"

"How could you?!" He demanded, wondering if he would ever recover from this betrayal; wondering whether he would ever be able to forgive her; whether he would ever be able to look at her the same way again. How could this be the same person who had punched Malfoy in year 3? Or who had held his hand every night during the war? How could this be the same person who had once love him? Who _still_ loved him like a brother? "How could you do this?" He spluttered out, his voice breaking under the weight of his grief. "After everything her lot did to us?"

"Are you insane, Ron?" Hermione asked, failing to keep the distinct pitch of hysteria from her voice. "She is the sole reason we're here today."

"I can't be listening to this," he muttered to himself. "I just can't be listening to this." Hermione noticed that the more he spoke, the more repulsive he became to her. The way he talked about Narcissa was so grotesque, so cruel, she could no longer see the kind face of her friend in his features anymore. Suddenly, Ron turned around and started walking away. "I need to clear my head. I need to clear my head."

"Stop insisting on clearing your head!" Hermione automatically snapped back at him. "Clear your bloody heart instead."

"Oh, fuck off, Hermione!" Ron yelled back from the stairs, leaving the hallway silent.

"I'm sorry -" Harry began, looking at the ground, as if he shared responsibility for Ron's words. "You know how Ron gets. He doesn't mean it."

"Don't worry, Harry," Hermione said quietly, surprised by how quickly her energy to fight had been drained. "Just go after him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Yeah, sure."

"Sorry," he repeated quickly, but this time his apology was directed solely at Narcissa. One curt nod from the Slytherin was enough for Harry to go after his best friend.

"Damn," Hermione cursed under her breath. Still staring at the empty hallway, the muggleborn felt Narcissa's warm arms wrap around her. Relief quickly trickled in, glad the confrontation was over for now. The muggleborn took two deep breaths, extinguishing the last embers of fire in her stomach and focused on Narcissa's steady breathing. _This is it_, Hermione thought at last as she leaned back into the safety of the pureblood's body. _This is all I want_, she concluded closing her eyes and allowing the pureblood to nuzzle her face on Hermione's neck. Slowly, Narcissa began to trail soft kisses over the skin the t-shirt exposed, as if with each kiss she was offering an apology inappropriate for words. Her hands slid under the red shirt, atoning with touch to the shape and form lent to Hermione by nature, wondering and a little awed that the Gryffindor was truly willing to wage wars for her. Hermione didn't comment, didn't admonish, but looked at Narcissa in the pauses of her movement, in the lulls between her touch, as if to say, _I know. I know._

_It's okay._

* * *

"Okay, mate. That's my sixth pint. If I have anymore I'm going to chunder," Harry said trying not to hiccup.

"Haven't you heard of tactical chundering?" Ron asked confusedly.

"That's so gross," Harry groaned, pushing his friend playfully.

"What? It works," he replied, cracking a small smile.

"We should go now."

"Nah, you go home, Harry, I'll just have one more."

Harry regarded his friend hazily, deciding that he didn't look too bad. "You sure?"

"Yeah, yeah," Ron replied, waving him off. "I have the day off work and Lavender is out with her mother. I'll just have another pint and crash home."

Harry nodded. Neither had mentioned the reason why they were sitting at the Leaky Cauldron at eleven in the morning, but denial seemed to have been working wonders with Ron's mood so Harry nodded again, regretting moving his queasy head so quickly. "Okay. Tom," he called the bartender.

"Another round, Mr Potter?" He asked jovially.

"No thank you, Tom," Harry stood up, holding on to the counter to make sure he didn't fall down. "Just make sure he gets home, yeah? Lav-Lav will kill me if anything happens to him."

Ron groaned from his seat, "stop calling her that!"

"No problem, Mr Potter. I'll throw in the floo powder myself."

"Alright, mate," Harry slurred as he patted Ron's back. "Breakfast. Tomorrow. At the Burrow."

"Lightweight," Ron teased in reply.

"Bugger off."

Ron watched his friend step into the large fireplace, engulfed by the green flames until he disappeared from sight.

"Alright, Tom - it's time for some fire whiskey," he said gruffly.

"You sure, Mr Weasley?"

"Yeah, and another pint."

"My, my, Mr Weasley - day drinking on a Tuesday?" A cooing voice said beside him. "You do seem to be letting yourself go."

"Oh, fuck off, Skeeter," he growled back before downing his glass of fire whiskey and motioning for another one.

"Tut, tut, Mr Weasley. Something or someone has got under your skin," she said coquettishly. "Fight with Lav-Lav? Trouble at work?"

Ron closed his eyes, feeling the punch of the firewhiskey bashing away at the last dreads of his sobriety, until at last he could laugh. "Nope."

"Then do tell, Mr Weasley. You know I'm a very good listener," she purred, motioning to Tom to bring them another round of drinks.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Ron replied, knocking down another glass of the amber liquid.

"Try me," Rita replied a smile curling around her features as she pulled out a quill.

**Massive apologies for the lateness! I've been moving houses and it's a nightmare! (So extra apologies if I couldn't get back to your review - just know that they made my day amidst the chaos of adulting).**

**R&amp;R! **


	37. Chapter 37

_CAUGHT IN FLAGRANTE _

_Mr Ronald Weasley, decorated war hero and celebrated auror, describes the traumatic event of finding dear friend Miss Hermione Granger ensnared in bed with former You-Know-Who follower Narcissa Malfoy, _writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent.

_It was a normal day for Mr Weasley visiting best friend Harry Potter (a.k.a. The Boy Who Refuses To Die) who lives with Miss Granger. It has long been rumoured that Mr Potter and Miss Granger have been carrying out an affair under the roof of his godfather's house, despite the former's relationship with Quidditch star Ginny Weasley. However, today your correspondent can dispel those rumours and reveal that Miss Granger's fickle affections for the famous (see: Viktor Krum and Mr Weasley himself) have taken a scandalous turn for the worse as she is now confirmed to be conducting an affair with none other than the infamous Narcissa Malfoy nee. Black._

"_I was coming up the stairs to find Harry when I saw [Mrs Malfoy] standing by Hermione's bedroom door in nothing more than a robe," Mr Weasley recalls painfully, bravely holding back his tears. "I didn't want to make any assumptions, but Hermione didn't even bother hiding what she'd done. In fact, she even defended [Mrs Malfoy]. How could she do this?" The tears become too difficult to contain for Mr. Weasley. _

_Mrs Malfoy, it must be recalled, was married to one of You-Know-Who's most important Death Eaters, the late Lucius Malfoy; was sister, as well, to Bellatrix Lestrange - You-Know-Who's most loyal and terrible servant. Her son, Draco Malfoy, has long been suspected of having played a pivotal part in the murder of Albus Dumbledore during his sixth year at Hogwarts. Although the Malfoy family was exempt from investigation due to Mr. Potter's testimony of Mrs Malfoy's role in the Battle of Hogwarts, there has never been any doubt that she had a place in You-Know-Who's inner most circle. _

"_I just can't understand how Hermione could do this," Mr. Weasley repeats, struggling to put to words the terrible emotions he is going through. "After everything she and her lot did to us. Why would she betray us like this?"_

_Mr Weasley was referring to the well known fact that as mistress of Malfoy Manor she provided sanctuary to You-Know-Who and was one of his main financial sources during both the first and second wizarding wars. As such, it comes as no surprise that the discovery that Mrs Malfoy, long considered the greatest example of pureblood ideals, has taken as her lover Miss Hermione Granger (almost twenty years her junior and the same age as her son, Draco Malfoy) the most morally outrageous event in recent memory. _

_The sentiment of betrayal expressed so harrowingly by Mr Weasley is one that will be surely shared by many of this journal's readers. Miss Granger, a beloved member of the wizarding community, widely considered the most brilliant witch of this age, has long been the face of muggleborn rights. How then, _your correspondent asks_, could she believe that such an act of hypocrisy would be forgiven?_

* * *

As Ginny reread the article for the sixth time, Hermione's great horned owl swooped through her open window and dropped off a large pouch on her bed. The distinct sound of coins rattled as she picked up the leather pouch.

"What the-" she muttered as she picked up a handful of galleons from the bag. Pulling the scroll that had been attached to the leather cord she recognised Hermione's loopy handwriting.

_A hundred galleons for your prophetic skills, as promised._

Ginny looked back at the front page of the Prophet and then back to the overflowing pouch of galleons. Suddenly, Ginny could not stop laughing.

**It's my birthday tomorrow, so here's your annual metaphorical slice of cake delivered via drabble :) **

**R&amp;R!**


	38. Chapter 38

**For those still slightly confused about what Ginny was laughing about in the last chapter - check out chapter 6 ;)**

Chapter 38

Narcissa stood outside the gates of Malfoy Manor with her hands folded behind her back and her lips pursed. She'd been standing there for a good five minutes, watching the way the morning sun imbued the masonry of the grand building with light and, distantly, delighted in the smell of the two gardens in full bloom either side of her. She could picture the large roses blooming behind the tall bushes; the lilacs too - a colourful contrast next to the white gardenias. Astoria was obviously working wonders with the gardens, it seemed.

Another minute passed by with the gentle breeze playing with the hem of her skirt. It was proving exceptionally difficult to muster the courage to step inside the gates when she found herself so voraciously enthralled with the architectural style of a building she'd known all her life. It occurred to Narcissa that this could possibly well be the first time she'd properly _looked_ at the manor. In unfavourable light, it wasn't difficult to imagine how intimidating her old home could come across as. Maybe that had been the point, she pondered. It would explain the facade's obsession with right angles - not a curvature in sight or the offset of a column. Severe. Always severe; this world of hers.

_Severe… Severe…. Severe…_, she repeated in her head. _Severe… Severe…_, she continued, until the word no longer sounded like a word.

A large barn owl swooped past her, forcing her to acknowledge the small army of owls that were delivering what seemed to be an endless stream of letters. The distinctive red envelopes of howlers dotted her view of the manor and she knew full well the extent of the echo they would cause in the dining hall. She also knew that the only reason the letters were being directed to Malfoy Manor was because the general public continued to be under the impression that she still lived there. At least this wouldn't be the first time Draco dealt with hate mail, she reasoned guiltily. In fact, during the impassioned times of the war trials, she, Lucius, and Draco had gotten rather good at vanishing howlers before they opened. Not that that gave her any motivation to confront the situation at hand.

Narcissa sighed exasperatedly at herself. This was getting ridiculous. She couldn't just stand there forever. Taking a deep breath, Narcissa straightened her already upright posture and with confidence she didn't have, walked determinedly into the Manor.

The door opened up to her automatically, inviting her into the grand foyer.

"He's in the study," Lucius' portrait hissed at her, not bothering to look up from his newspaper.

Narcissa nodded to herself, taking another deep breath and briskly setting about to climb the four stories needed to reach the top. The ornate wooden door of the central study immediately came into view as she turned to climb the final set of stairs, but her determination was cut short as she raised her hand to knock on the door.

"Come in," Draco called from within.

Like the portrait of his father, Draco was slumped in his chair engrossed with the morning's Daily Prophet.

"Good morning, Draco," Narcissa announced, trying to sound bored.

Draco's attention immediately darted to his mother, his posture straightening in her presence despite the shocked expression he threw at her. With a rough motion, her son shoved the paper in the air to show his mother her face and Hermione Granger's plastered all over the front page.

"Yes, I know, Draco. I read the papers too," she admonished exasperatedly, immediately regretting her tone of voice.

He threw the paper onto the ebony table, frowning as he stood up to close the window. "Well then," he began, sincere in his confusion. "Is there any credit to this latest drivel Weasley has come up with?"

He sat himself back down in the chair behind the desk, waiting for his mother to reply. Narcissa confirmed with a quick nod and automatically his expression hardened into haughtiness; it was the same expression he would use when a good wine had been paired with the wrong food, or when a reporter hassled him for an interview to talk about the war.

"How did this happen?" He finally managed to hiss out coldly. Distantly, Narcissa wondered if he realised how much he sounded like his father when he was scared.

"She," Narcissa paused, turning around as she desperately searched for the right way to phrase this. "Is the first person to see me as I am. And not just that," she paused again to regain her posture and smooth down her dress, finally facing Draco with a calm smile. "She also see's me as I long to be."

The coiled rage in Draco drained in one go, leaving Narcissa's pale boy looking exhausted. He nodded wearily in understanding, lowering his face onto his propped hand as if wishing he could escape into slumber before pouring all his strength into his lungs and lifting his body back up in one deep breath. He nodded again at his mother - a token blessing - then stood up to throw the paper in the fireplace. "I hope Weasley had a heart attack." He deadpanned. Narcissa's lips twitched with mirth, "almost."

They both stood in front of the fireplace, watching the paper quickly dissolving into the flames.

"Granger?" He asked with a slight scowl.

"She's an extraordinary witch," Narcissa replied lightly.

"I know," he drawled sarcastically, "I went to school with her." Draco cocked his head to the side in deep thought. "Although I suppose in the grand scheme of things eighteen years isn't that big of a difference."

"It's not," she agreed, both still enthralled with the fire.

"Granger, though?" He asked, seemingly unable to help himself. Narcissa raised a curious eyebrow. "I just never thought you'd go for a -"

"Girl?" Narcissa supplied.

"No. Well, yes, that too," he replied awkwardly. "I meant a muggleborn."

Narcissa sighed, tearing herself away from the fireplace to sit down on one of the armchairs. "Will you be offering me a drink, Draco, dear?"

"Of course, mother," he replied quickly, grabbing two glasses and the ornate decanter in his drinks cabinet. He carefully poured her two fingers of single malt, offering her the smallest of smiles in apology when he gave her the glass. His mother returned the smile fondly and watched him sit down in the armchair opposite her.

"You look tired, Draco. Have you been taking care of yourself?"

"Yes," he replied patiently, knowing there was no way of rushing his mother's small talk.

"Now that the weather's improving you should make an effort to go out more," she reminded him gently, "fresh air does wonders for the soul." He nodded in agreement. "I noticed Astoria restored the walls back to their original green."

"Yes, she did it before I woke up this morning."

"And what does _she_ make of this whole... fiasco?" She asked aloofly, waving her hand to gesture sarcastically at the fireplace where the ashes of the Daily Prophet became indiscernible.

"Didn't seemed surprised at all, for some reason," he admitted with a confused frown. "She actually wants to invite Granger over for dinner."

Narcissa's lips twitched with a fond smile. "Would you be opposed?" She asked him curiously.

Draco took a sip of his drink, feeling the way the whiskey burned its way pleasantly down his throat. He knew what his mother was doing, and he was grateful she was giving him a say. But, ultimately, there was no choice to make - he simply could not disappoint his mother.

"Of course not," he finally answered.

"Then it's settled," she stated with an untroubled smile. "I'll have a word with Astoria before I leave as I'm more than happy to host."

A few minutes rolled by gently as they sat in companionable silence. Draco was the first to break their reveries with a short sigh. "Father's portrait is furious," he stated.

"I know."

"As is half of Britain."

"I know."

"Are you going to do something about it?" He asked.

"I need to talk to Hermione first, find out what how she wants to approach it," she replied lightly. "Regardless, we've smoothed out larger bumps than this, I'm sure this won't prove too taxing."

The blonde boy nodded contemplatively, considering whether it was wise to ask his next question, but his indignity gave out. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

His mother's smile saddened as she leaned slightly closer to Draco. "Of course I was, Draco," she said earnestly. "Contrary to what Miss Skeeter and that Weasley boy will have us believe, these developments have been very recent."

"And do you truly think it wise to continue?" He finally asked, knowing this would be his only chance to question his mother's judgement. "The reputation of _all_ of our name's is at stake here."

"I'm well aware," she replied cooly, "do not make the mistake of thinking this was a choice made lightly."

"Then what of the old ways?"

Narcissa considered his question calmly, knowing that if he insisted she would have no other choice but to end things with Hermione. In the last few days of Druella Black's life, she had never stopped reminding Narcissa that being a mother meant sacrificing everything. Her words had had the ring of truth, backed as they were by the experience of a woman who had lost everything because of a child. Finishing her drink, Narcissa chose her words carefully.

"We should never make the mistake of believing that the limits of our own fields of vision, are the limits of the world."

A few tense seconds ticked by, until at last Draco raised his hands in playful surrender. And so it was settled. A wide smile bloomed on his mother's face, and it occurred to him that it had been a long time since he had seen his mother look so delighted.

"Have you had breakfast?" He asked, unable to refrain from mirroring his mother's infectious smile.

"No, I got rather caught up in all the commotion - came straight here."

"Would you care to join me? I haven't had breakfast either," he offered warmly.

"I would love to, thank you," she replied as they stood up. "It was terribly rude of me to cause an emergency before breakfast, I must apologise."

"Don't think twice about it, mother," he said, offering her his arm as they made their way to the dining hall. "If anything, it's always good fun trying to vanish all the howlers."

Narcissa chuckled, "it's been a while since we've had a good scandal, hasn't it? Ah! Good morning, Astoria."

"Morning, Cissy!" The young witch replied, quickly closing the paper she was reading with an embarrassed smile.

Narcissa waved her hand in appeasement, "don't stop for my sake."

"Actually, I was just waiting for Draco to come down," she said cheerfully. "All the howlers will go off the moment I open the doors and two wands are always better than one. Three is even better."

"On the count of three, then," Draco directed as they unsheathed their wands.

"One…"

"Two…"

"Three!"

**R&amp;R**


	39. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

"_The next train to depart from Platform 9 will be the five ten train to Skipton. Will all passengers intending to take this train, please make their way onto the platform…"_

"Are you going somewhere interesting?"

Hermione jumped in her seat, snapping her newspaper closed and looked up to find Luna staring at her curiously with a large trunk next to her. "Golly, Luna, you shouldn't sneak up on people like that."

The pale girl smiled apologetically, "I'm sorry, didn't mean to scare you," she said softly as she sat in the empty chair next to her. "My train doesn't leave for another half hour, and I saw you sitting here so I thought I should come over to say hi. Hi."

"Hello," Hermione replied hesitantly.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I interrupted your reading," Luna said gesturing at the Prophet in Hermione's hands. The muggleborn blushed bright pink and stuffed the newspaper in her bag, "no, please, don't worry about it. Load of nonsense anyway."

"I haven't read the Daily Prophet in a long time," Luna mused softly. "Have I missed anything important?"

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed, "it's complicated."

"Okay."

The two witches sat in comfortable silence, watching the commuters busily making their way home - the muggles talked and ran and moved and planned, granting the two women glimpses into all their tiny private domains. Hermione's eyes locked onto an ageing couple pointing at the timetables before quickly making their way onto a platform that lay beyond her eyesight. A familiar laugh caught her attention as she toyed with the idea of showing Luna her copy of the telegraph, but the owner of that bellyful of laughter was not to be located in the moving crowd.

"_This is a safety announcement. It is not permitted to cycle, skateboard or roller blade within the station building…"_

"You never told me where you're going," Luna commented curiously.

"That's because I'm not going anywhere," Hermione replied quickly, before adding, "I spent the day in the library around the corner, but I just didn't feel like going home."

"That makes sense," Luna stated, her ethereal smile radiating cryptically. "It's difficult to find ourselves at home. The furniture is always insisting we haven't changed just because it can't. I had a lamp that claimed it knew me, but that wasn't who I was; not essentially, anyway."

Hermione frowned, once again finding herself slightly bemused by her friend's well intended words. "What did you do with the lamp?" She asked slightly awkwardly.

"Oh, I gave it away," Luna replied, "it was high time for it to meet someone new."

"Of course," Hermione replied tentatively with a nod. "Where are you going, Luna?"

"Hogwarts," she said with a beaming smile. "I'm going to visit Neville for a week. He says he needs help with his Moondew. I suspect a pesky gulping plimpy."

Hermione opened her mouth, about to emphatically argue against the existence of any such creature named 'gulping plimpy', but before she got the words out, she thought better of it. Instead, she opted to watch a trio of teenagers excitedly making their way towards the exit - their excitement carrying the distinct bounce of their first time alone in the city.

"_The next train to depart from Platform 1 will be the five twenty five train to Peterborough via Finsbury Park. Will all passengers intending to take this train, please make their way onto the platform…"_

"Do you come here often?" Luna asked her gently.

The question caught Hermione by surprise. "Yes."

"Who are you waiting for?"

Hermione knew she was lying before the words even finished stumbling out of her mouth, "no one." The Gryffindor bristled in her chair, wondering why Luna always had this effect on her. Hermione swept the vast expanse of King's Cross station with a sigh, surveying the bright shops and the busy rumble of life that pushed forward under the fluorescent lights. "A few years ago, I was coming back from somewhere and I thought I saw my parents," she said in a quick and embarrassed rush. "It probably wasn't even them, but since then, whenever I'm in King's Cross I always find pieces of them in other people's faces. It's horribly silly, I know."

"It's not," Luna stated with a finality that allowed Hermione to set aside her embarrassment.

"_Please do not leave your baggage unattended on the station. Luggage left unattended may be removed without warning or destroyed or damaged by the security services…"_

"I'm in love with someone I definitely shouldn't be in love with," the muggleborn finally confessed, her eyes burning into the large clock that hung above them as if begging it to save her from asphyxiating from the stress of trying to understand everything and everyone and all their secret motivations.

"Congratulations," Luna began dreamily, "falling in love is such a difficult thing-"

"No, no, Luna, you don't understand," Hermione insisted urgently, "this changes everything."

Luna delicately patted Hermione on the back. "Everything was going to change anyway, Hermione."

The Gryffindor slumped in her chair, her tension unwound. Sitting quietly in King's Cross, Hermione could almost see exactly how the future would uncoil. It was true, she could attempt to reason with Ron, chase after him with explanations and figures and facts, even apologise, even beg. But none of it would console him. She knew him. He would roar at her ten times louder than her most clamorous explanation, his alcohol intake would increase six-fold. Harry would provide words like "angry" and "sad" in his defence, assuring her that those emotions where perfectly normal for someone in Ron's position. But she was angry too. She was being betrayed as well. The only difference was that Hermione knew that her righteous anger at him would ebb away over the days and weeks: it would be too difficult to sustain that sort of anger. The sadness would last longer.

"I fell in love with her because I saw the world through her eyes," Hermione muttered distantly. "I thought… I thought, that perhaps, if _I_ could see from her point of view, it wouldn't be too difficult for me to show everyone else what I saw. I thought I would at least get a chance to explain."

Luna smiled gently at her friend. "I'm sorry, Hermione, people seldom like being made to see."

Hermione's thoughts trailed to the Daily Prophet in her bag and suddenly, from the very bottom of her bowls she felt a fury so strong it was almost like grief. _Is it hate?_ For a moment that seemed not the right word, but she had no other.

"_24 hour CCTV recording is in operation at this station for the purpose of security and safety management…"_

"I sometimes try to imagine what future historians will say about us," Luna wondered out loud. "What single sentence will they use to sum up modern wizardry?" Hermione didn't answer, strangely at peace with the fact that fickle history could easily chose to condemn her for all future generations. "I guess it doesn't really matter," Luna trailed off.

"No, it doesn't."

"_The next train to depart from Platform 11 will be the five thirty seven train to King's Lynn via Cambridge. Will all passengers intending to take this train, please make their way onto the platform…"_

Hermione perked up at the announcement, remembering that that was the train that could take her to the Fortress. "Actually, Luna, I am going somewhere." The blonde girl looked at her curiously. "It's time I go home."

"Good luck then, Hermione," Luna replied with a warm smile.

"Say hi to Neville from me!"

"Of course."

Waving one last goodbye to her smiling friend, Hermione joined the crowd, pleased she had figured out which direction she was meant to be heading.

* * *

"Granger," was all he said as he stood holding the door open.

"Malfoy."

Draco regarded her with eyes weary around the edges, as if strained by the effort of considering too many things lately. Hermione endured his scrutiny with equanimity, unmoving and unwavering, until Draco stepped aside to let her in the marble fortress.

"I hope you know what you're getting into," he warned haughtily.

Hermione's lips parted. A loud crack interrupted her. Limpy stood before them with a silver tray holding a china set. "Tea?"

Draco nodded and took the delicate cup offered to him. Hermione followed suit, wondering if it was too late to bolt.

"She's not here yet," he offered, and Hermione could see the considerable effort he was going through to play nice. He gestured awkwardly at the jade green chesterfields, but as they say down their eyesight immediately darted to the morning's papers spread out the coffee table between them. With ill concealed anger, Draco pulled his wand from his cane and set the papers on fire. Hermione let out a small squeak as a small fireball arose from her picture on the front page. With a satisfied flourish Draco sheathed his wand and smoothed his hair back.

"I've half a mind to sue the Prophet," Draco hissed angrily. "How dare they speak of my mother that way?"

Hermione nervously sipped at her tea, desperately trying not to think about the fact that she and Draco were now related in some distant and awkward way. "You could… sue her, Rita Skeeter that is," Hermione offered, trying not to sound as uncomfortable as she felt. Draco's attention darted to her, waiting for her to continue. "Not about this," she said and she felt all the blood in her body rushing to her face. "But in general - she's an illegal animagus."

A small smile crept on Draco's face, "how do you know this, Granger?"

"During the Triwizard Tournament I caught her spying on us in the form of a beetle and I trapped her in an unbreakable jar until she promised she'd stop using it to spy on people. But the fact remains that she's an unregistered animagus."

Draco threw her a begrudgingly impressed smirk, but then his whole expression darkened. "What about Weasley? How are you going to fix that? Or is our lord and saviour Weasley allowed to do whatever he wants?"

Hermione sighed and looked at the clear night sky through the large windows. She should've suspected that Malfoy would want blood. And there was weight to his grievance - Ron could be so irresponsible, so utterly careless. She turned to face him and Draco looked into her eyes with an intensity that made Hermione realise this would be his only offer to join his side.

The muggleborn leaned back into the couch, rubbing her temple as she mustered the courage to commit to all the implications he was asking of her. A deep breath. _Of course, of course_, she finally admitted to herself; there was nothing to debate. She would pick Narcissa in every universe. She would pick her side every time. She would chose everything she implied.

"Contrary to popular belief I am not responsible for Ron's actions," she finally said with a heavy sigh. Draco looked at her curiously, calmly taking a sip of his tea as he waited for her to continue. "I've spent so much energy caring about what he thinks of me, that I _just don't_ care anymore. As for the article -" she raised her hands in surrender, "it's on his conscience, not mine. I have nothing to be ashamed for and I won't dignify it with a response."

Draco raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, then nodded, accepting Hermione's response. The blonde man stood up in search of the drinks cabinet. "Drink, Granger?" He offered her.

"Please."

He returned to his seat, passing her one of the ornate glasses she was far too familiar with. Hermione watched him as he lazily swirled the amber liquid in his glass, and thought that after more than two decades of war with dust and soot, the wizarding aristocracy had exfoliated itself, since then wearing the honest look of an ageing actress at breakfast. He seemed to be struggling to choose whether to say something or not, but after a few sips of the firewhiskey, he surrendered.

"When my father died he said, 'my son, I pray that you'll be luckier than your father was, but still take after me in everything else.'" Draco avoided looking at the Gryffindor, as if he would be incapable of speaking what was on his mind if he had to acknowledge he was saying it to her. "For all his faults, family was sacred to him," he spoke quietly, in a slow thoughtful pace Hermione almost found gentle. "In honour of that, I've set aside my animosity against your blood status, and I hope you can forgive me for the grief I've given you for it."

Draco looked up at Hermione, surprised to find her smiling.

"Of course, Draco," she said warmly, extending her hand out. Draco returned the smile and shook her hand.

**R&amp;R!**


End file.
